


The Queen of Hearts

by looseleiftea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, NaNoWriMo 2020, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other characters make appearances - Freeform, chapters 1-5 is blind banker, if mycroft has a minor role in the british govt then queenie is just a civil servant, mature language used, violence is not super graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looseleiftea/pseuds/looseleiftea
Summary: The Queen of HeartsShe made some tarts,All on a summer's day;The Knave of HeartsHe stole those tarts,And took them clean away.-Regina Watson - more commonly known as Queenie - the youngest of the Watson, fell into crime at a young age, trespassing on private property with a group of free-runners.At the age of eighteen, Queenie disappeared, seemingly off the surface of the planet, following the end of her education, with only a note of farewell to her family members offering no clue to her whereabouts.Time continued with the youngest Watson being presumed dead, however a handful of people knew the truth, Queenie was well, alive and deep in hiding, but most importantly, in training, learning to use her skills developed through her criminal activity to help the British Government. Until one of the few people she classed as truly safe, became roommates with the brother she had left with no explanation years prior.---or in which I rewrite a fanfic i wrote in 2016 for 2020's nanowrimo
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue

Regina "Queenie" Emily Watson was the youngest of the Watson siblings.

She felt crushed with the pressure of having an older brother and sister constantly weighed on her, she thought, even as she grew older, it was no question to her why she had been drawn to crime.

Nothing severe, no murder, no breaking and entering, just running, climbing and a lot of weed. The feeling of her feet pounding on the rooftop of a building and the rush of jumping between two buildings. She had become a skilled free-runner by the time she was due to sit her A-level examinations.

Called into an office on one of the few days she attended her classes, she had met him for the first time. A young man stood when she entered, tall, well dressed in a three-piece suit and holding an umbrella.

"Regina. Please sit.” She did as she was asked, used to teachers calling her into offices and being told she’d go nowhere. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, do you know who I am?" He asked. She adorned a hoodie - three sizes too big for her in a faded teal green colour - a t-shirt she had been sleeping in and a pair of torn jeans, along with her scuffed trainers, she felt slobbish in comparison to the suited man.

She looked him up and down, “No. But you look like a tory cunt.” His serious face flickered briefly, a smile almost slipped through his mask.

"Here," he passed a file to the eighteen-year-old she took in her scarred and battle-worn hands, from being scraped up against walls, metal and concrete over several years, "this is your brief, you are expected to take it."

She flicked through the file, there were pages upon pages of information on her small gang, all-female, some older than her, yet she, of all eight of them, was the most talented.

“Why?” She tossed it back to him.

“Because you are incredibly useful to us.” He told her, “You’re a natural at ‘free-running’ and have shown his levels of intellect. With the right training and skills, you’ll have a wonderful career.”

“But?” 

“Sorry?”

“What’s the ‘but?’ There’s always something.” She expected predicted grades.

“But you have cut ties with your family. We would handle everything legally and I believe you’ve been suggested for the Venetian training camp.”

“That’s it?” She laughed, “You handle everything and I get to fuck off to Venice? Sign me up.”

A scribble on a contract was made. 

Queenie Watson was last seen the day she finished her A-Levels.

* * *

Mycroft kept an eye on the young woman. Venice treated her well, she spoke the language within a month and excelled in her training, joint top of the class, she made her mind palace powerful and her talents deadly. He was pleased. Especially when given the odd opportunity to work with her, she was a fountain of information and happy to do leg work. 

It made her happy. Someone believed in her, even when everything crashed down around her, standing in Mycroft’s office, covered in blood and gasping for air as she sobbed. There was no other place she’d rather be.


	2. Chapter 1

It had been only a few weeks, nearing a month, since John and Sherlock had moved into 221B Baker Street. The tapping on John’s keyboard was interrupted by the shrill sound of the doorbell echoing from beneath the flat. As per usual, Mrs Hudson answered the door, the sound of a male voice rumbled from the floor below briefly and then the door shut. John peered out the window, a young man walked swiftly away from the house, clearly not wearing the attire of a postie.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson called, running up the stairs as fast as her hips would allow her, "Sherlock? This just arrived for you." She held her hand out to him, "He said it was an urgent message for you." She held a postcard in her hand.

"Read it out loud." Sherlock demanded, fiddling with his so-called 'experiment'.

"Well, all it says is  _ Buckingham Palace is occupied _ and there's a drawing of a crown, look!" She held the postcard to John, who walked towards the landlady and took the postcard. It was the cheap kind of postcard tourists got scammed into buying for a few quid, as opposed to the few pennies they were worth. It struck John as unusual that there was no stamp on it. He let out a sigh, he could feel a case coming on. With a soft thanks from John, Mrs Hudson took her leave. 

" _ Buckingham Palace is occupied _ ?" John asked, looking over at Sherlock.

"Yes, open the window." Sherlock didn't look up from his experiment - mixing various chemicals with severed toes.

"What does  _ Buckingham Palace is occupied _ mean?" He questioned, walking towards the window.

"It means  _ open the window _ , John."

John did as he was told, pushing the window up, as he returned to his seat, a person flew through the window, legs first, slid across the table, yet landed neatly on their feet.

"Room at the end of the hall." Sherlock indicated with a single wave of his hand, and the person disappeared without a glance at John, flicking their hood up as they strode down the hall.

"Who the hell was that?" He hissed as he heard the door to Sherlock's bedroom snap shut.

"A friend.” After a beat, he continued, knowing what John’s silence meant. “We have an ongoing arrangement, she does work for me when I need it, and I offer her a bed when she needs one."

"She?" A shocked facial expression flickered across the doctor's face, "You have a girlfriend?" This got Sherlock’s attention, for the first time in over an hour, Sherlock’s eyes left his experiment.

"I wouldn't call it as such, more a mutually beneficial cooperative relationship." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the comedic expression on John's face.

"Sherlock has a girlfriend." He smirked. "Who climbs buildings and enters a house through the second-floor windows." He sighed, "What work does she do for you? Get you your fresh toes?"

"No, Molly gives me my body parts, obviously." He looked up, "She's an excellent masseuse."

"Molly?" John blinked in surprise.

"No, her." He indicated his bedroom, now containing the mysterious - to John at the least - girl.

"Oh, well-" John stammered, "Wh-why, why did she have to come through the window?"

"It's what she does, the same way you just keep dating women."

_ Typical Sherlock bloody Holmes.  _ He thought to himself as he picked up his newspaper.

* * *

Queenie woke from her nap, hours later, slightly confused from her sudden return to consciousness, having fallen asleep still in her clothes. Crouching, she found the shoebox with her clothes in from under the bed and used the sound of an argument, almost entirely one-sided, helped her hide her sounds as she slipped from the messy bedroom to messier bathroom, her body was stiff and, Jesus, she felt awful. She opened the shoebox to find a pair of cotton pyjamas and a crease-resistant dress she had stored there.

She turned her attention to the bath, put the plug in its hole, hot water on and let the steam fill the bathroom.

"Excuse me?" A familiar voice spoke through the door, "Do you want a drink or anything? Tea? Water?"

"I'm fine." She removed her clothes as she spoke, she could still sense the man standing on the other side of the door, he thought for a moment before speaking this time. 

"Have we ever met?" He asked, "It's just I recognise your voice." She turned the cold water tap

"I've been around a lot." She looked at her naked form in the mirror, her leg was grazed and the gash she had presumed was healing had torn open and had begun to bleed. She found a clean looking face cloth, soaked it in cold tap water and tenderly placed it on her shoulder, she hissed at the pain.

"Are you hurt? I can help, I’m a doc-"

"I kn-! I'm fine, go away." She snapped, she listened to him sigh, grumble a goodbye and trudged down the hall. Her blurry face in the foggy mirror looked back at her, a sad smile on her face. The bath was nearly full, she turned off the tap and plunged her sore body into the water, her skin going red from the searing water, the odd white scar peeking through the flushed skin. She allowed herself to relax. Finding solace in the safety of the flat.

* * *

"How long are you staying?" Sherlock asked Queenie, she had emerged from Sherlock's bathroom, dressed in faded pyjamas and had hovered in the dark kitchen until John had turned in for the night.

"I don't know." She stood in the doorway, shrouded by shadow, "A lot's happened recently."

"Coffee?" He suggested.

"Jesus Christ, yes." She laughed and moved forward. It always struck Sherlock how much she looked like John. They had the same deep blue eyes and the same scowl. Had he met John earlier, Sherlock was certain that he too would’ve had mousy brown hair. Considerably shorter than the waist-length braid that Queenie had running down her back though. He observed the slight shake in her hand as she made the coffees.

Mugs of coffee in the hands of both people, they sat, Sherlock in his seat and Queenie in John's, they spoke casually, Sherlock of his most recent experiment, while Queenie told the tales of her most recent mission.

By the time the mugs had been emptied and filled several occasions and the sun's early morning light was filling the room, Queenie was half asleep in her brother's armchair, underneath Sherlock's eyes had become dark with shadows.

"You have a tattoo." He observed, sleep clear in his voice.

"I do, you're so very correct, as usual." She lifted the cuff of her pyjama shorts to show a simple design, a playing card.

"The Queen of Hearts?" He questioned, one eyebrow raised.

"Seemed fitting, since our old Mikey boy isn't putting me to much use anymore." A tone of bitterness and resentment in her voice made Sherlock grin, "It does mean I can do more things." She nodded slightly, "How did you know about my tattoo?"

"Saw the edge of it when you crossed your legs.” They both nodded and lapsed into silence, “When you say  _ more things,  _ does that include speaking to your family?" Sherlock asked with a casual air about him.

“I don’t think so. One day, maybe.” She turned her body to face behind her. John stood, frozen to the spot, in the kitchen, “Oh. Hello.”

"My, my, John." Sherlock mused, "You look like you've seen a ghost.”

"Who are you?" John finally broke his stunned silence.

“Queenie, meet John. John, this is my friend, Regina Hyland, though she goes by Queenie.” 

“Hyland?” He raised his eyebrows. She nodded, hoping he’d trick himself out of it, "Sorry. You reminded me of someone who I used to know.” She let out a soft sigh, hardly noticeable, “So this is who you’re dating?" John was staring straight past her to Sherlock, Queenie let out a snort of laughter, "What?"

"You think I'm dating Sherlock?" She shook her head, smiling still, "I wouldn't say dating, no, we have a mutually beneficial cooperative relationship."

"So I've heard." John glared at the duo, Queenie's smile faltered as she watched the person she had missed more than anyone look so miserable. He walked over to the young woman, unaware of her true identity, and began examining her, checking her arms and legs for injuries.

"I'm fine, John, I promise." She spoke softly, then hissed as she felt John put pressure on the gash on her shoulder, "It's just taking a while to heal. It's old." John raised his eyebrows, "I've finished the job." She looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, "I'm changing divisions."

"Hm. Can't imagine Mycroft is very happy about that."

"Mycroft? How do you know Mycroft?" John watched the duo converse, ignoring his questions.

"Oh, he was so upset. Especially considering I’m moving into  _ his  _ division. I think he learnt to text that day, even though he could’ve easily turned to speak to me."

“Oh?”

"He was in the same room as me, pouting, like a child."

"That's Mycroft for you." Sherlock’s mouth twitched at the corner.

"What the HELL is going on?" Silence fell, “Who the hell are you, why do you know Mycroft and what kind of relationship do you two have?” He pointed between the two.

“My name is Queenie Hyland, I was approached by the British Government, namely, Mycroft Holmes, at the tender age of eighteen. I trained to become a secret agent for the British Secret Service. Now, I’m entering the Ministry of Defence managerial team." Queenie looked at her older brother with her brows knitted together, she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t hurt him, "As for a relationship. It’s quite simple. I need a place to stay, Sherlock lets me stay.”

“So you haven’t-?” An uncomfortable silence lapsed. Neither Sherlock nor Queenie willing to answer.

“I think I’m going to get dressed. Do you mind if I borrow something?” Sherlock nodded his head. She stood and John stayed still until he heard the door slam. 

"Breakfast?" Sherlock suggested, jumping up from his seat, taking John - mouth agape, about to ask a question - by surprise.

"Just a coffee for me." John sat heavily in the seat his sister had sat in for hours.

"We need milk." A beat passed, "And coffee." The fridge Sherlock had opened slammed shut, "And food."

"I'll go shopping then, shall I?" 

"Right you are." Sherlock sat back in his seat, opening the book he had left on the table and flipping to the page he had marked with an envelope. 

“I don’t trust that  _ Queenie  _ just yet.” He murmured, a hint of bitterness in his voice. Sherlock raised his hand to wave off his concerns. Mrs Hudson appeared at the doorway, looking harassed.

"Sherlock, this man's been knocking on the door for half an hour," She allowed a man to enter, from his attire, all three present could tell he was a Sikh Warrior, "he seems angry." She added in a whisper. John pulled a wooden chair out from under the table, placing in between the two armchairs.

"Thank you." He replied, lowering himself into the chair slowly, not taking his eyes off the detective, "I have come to you about The Jaria Diamond." John heard no more, he shut the door to the stairway, as he went to close the front door, a soft thud filtered through the ceiling.

"Boring." Sherlock sneered to the warrior, "Goodbye."

"What?" He asked, a fire igniting in his eyes, "You cannot refuse my case!"

"I just did. Please leave and try not to make too much noise, I have a guest and it would be terrible manners for me to permit them their peace." Sherlock opened the door leading into the stairway, but was stopped as the warrior pulled a curved sword from his belt and placed the bladed edge to his neck, a grin spread across Sherlock's face, "Not so boring." He stated before landing a sharp blow on the Warrior's left cheek with his fist.

* * *

A series of loud thuds prevented Queenie from beginning to dress her. Grudgingly, she recognised the sounds of a fight and removed herself from the bedroom, in well-practised silence, she opened the door and entered the main area of the flat through the kitchen to find Sherlock in the midst of a battle with a blade-wielding swordsman.

"Oi!" She shouted, the attacker stopped, apparently shocked by Queenie's arrival, Sherlock - freed from being pinned down by a scimitar - pushed him with all the strength he could muster. She leapt deftly onto the table and ran to the end, Sherlock was in between the man and herself, making her useless.

“There!” Sherlock pointed to a random point, causing the attacker to look briefly, before stepping out the way. Queenie took her cue and threw herself at the attacker, she threw him down and rolled neatly off of him as they both crashed to the ground. His ragdoll fall told her that she had successfully knocked him out.

"Thank you," Sherlock panted, holding his hand out to her. 

“Any time.” She took the hand and helped Sherlock take the warrior to his comrade outside.

Excusing herself back to Sherlock’s room, she allowed herself a moment to consider the day ahead whilst she lay aimlessly in Sherlock's bed. She noted the smell of cigarettes and a musky scent she couldn't quite place. Eventually, she slowly peeled herself out of the bed and opened the wardrobe. She wasn’t surprised by the lack of women’s clothes. The dress she had left was too formal and the memories tied to it too raw. It left her with few options. Nevertheless, she picked a pair of trousers and a navy sweater. Putting them on, they were both too large for her but cinched with a belt and the cuffs of trousers rolled, the outfit gave her a 30s-esque silhouette. Her running shoes didn’t quite match the look, but she was happy.

She grabbed her trainers and opened the door, having heard the door open and close twice.

“Was that John with the shopping?” She asked when she entered, leaving her shoes near the sofa.

“It was John, he fought with the chip and pin machine.” He replied. 

“Ah, that sounds like him.” She wandered into the kitchen and noticed the scratch on the table.

“So, Hyland isn’t your real surname.” He closed his book softly.

“No.” She smiled sadly, “Had to have a new one after- well. You know.” She trailed off and swallowed. They lapsed into silence and Queenie found herself cleaning the dirty dishes. Sherlock clattering behind her in the living room before settling down.

They continued peacefully until the door opened and closed once again. Queenie stepped into the hall and saw John coming up the stairs.

"Morning." John groaned.

"Need a hand?" She offered, seeing the large bags of food in hands.

"No, don't worry about me, I can manage." He entered via the kitchen, whilst Queenie went directly into the living room, Sherlock was sitting at the desk, browsing on a laptop that she was certain didn't belong to him.

"Is that my computer?" John questioned, taken aback.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, not looking up.

"What?"

"Mine is in the bedroom."

"What? And you couldn't be bothered to get up?"

"I mean, I was changing." She raised her hands in his defence, "Did you get orange juice?" She walked towards the kitchen as John walked to Sherlock.

"And it's password protected."

"In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox."

Queenie chuckled listening to them quip back and forth as she peered into the bags, looking for a carton of juice and, out of habit, she began to unpack the items.

"Right." John took the laptop from under Sherlock's hands, snapping it shut, "Thank you." Sherlock faltered, his concentration broke, yet he attempted to regain it, placing his elbows on the table, his hands steepled as if in prayer with both index fingers on his lips.

"You're welcome." She smirked, watching John's scowling face. He sat in his chair, rifling through several bills.

"Oh," he cringed, looking at the red warnings, her face fell, "need to get a job."

"Oh, dull." Sherlock sneered, lacing his fingers together. John mused momentarily.

"Listen, um," He began, a struggle in his mind showing on his face, "If you'd be able to lend me some..." He trailed off, as Queenie opened her mouth to speak, she was interrupted, "Sherlock, are you listening?"

"I need to go to the bank." Sherlock suddenly stood, John simply looked bewildered and followed. Queenie - refusing to be left behind - followed soon after, leaving the half-unpacked shopping on the table, shoving her feet into the trainers she had chucked into the hall earlier.

* * *

The feeling of being thoroughly underdressed in comparison to others was one Queenie was not unused to, oversized clothes weren’t her forte, she had learnt to blend in and now felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb whenever she glimpsed her Nikes. John wore a semi-casual jacket and his jeans and Sherlock wore his typical scarf and Belstaff. With the edition of Queenie, she felt the trio looked odd walking into the Shad Sanderson building.

"Yes, when you said you were going to the bank..." John's bewildered expression made Queenie laugh, "You didn't have to come along."

"Oh, let her." Sherlock spoke before turning to the woman at the desk, "Sherlock Holmes."

The three were led up several floors, "Sherlock Holmes!" A voice cheered and Sebastian came into the office.

"Sebastian." Sherlock greeted, shaking his hand politely.

"Hiya, buddy." Queenie eyed him, observing his crisp blue suit and his watch, "How long has it been, eight years since I last clapped eyes on you? And you've got yourself a bird at last." He noticed Queenie looking innocent next to John, her face, which had been neutral, became an icy smile.

"These are my friends, John Watson and Queenie Hyland."

"Friends?"

"Colleague." John corrected.

"Associate," Queenie replied, both shook Sebastian's hand, the youngest adorning an expression telling Sebastian that she was in no way interested in any relationship on her face, her eyes flicked down to his watch.

"Right." Sebastian sat behind his desk, "Grab a pew. Do you need anything, coffee, water?" None replied, "No?" He addressed his PA, "We're all sorted here, thanks. Oh, another chair?"

“No. I’ll stand.” Queenie said as the men sat down. It was something of a comfort to her, she’d be able to escape if she needed.

"So, you're doing well." Sherlock commented, making himself comfortable, "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, so?" He replied, a tone of modesty that was surely false. Sherlock concentrated on him.

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month." A scoff escaped Sebastian's smirking mouth.

"Right. You're doing that thing." An arrogant smile twitched the corner of his mouth, "We were at uni together," He told the Watsons, "and this guy here - he had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick." Sherlock interrupted. 

"He could look at you and tell your whole life story." He continued, paying no attention to Sherlock's remark.

"Yes, I've seen him do it." John nodded.

"Put the wind-up everyone. We hated him." Sherlock seemed utterly undisturbed by the remark, having been made used to it long ago, Queenie glared daggers at the man, remembering her months of training, desperately learning what Sherlock could do naturally with complete ease. Not noticing Queenie's eyes stabbing him, Sebastian continued, "You'd come to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed." The detective spoke monotonously.

"It's not hard either," Queenie muttered, mentally listing the different signs of a hook-up:

Clothes, a day old and creased from being thrown off in a rush and being left on the floor all night. Hair - often ruffled. Knees, slightly dirty. Glances across the room, made more obvious by blushes spreading across the face.

Sebastian laughed.

"Go on. Enlighten me. 'Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world'. You're quite right. But how could you tell?" Sherlock opened his mouth and was interrupted by Sebastian, "Are you going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

"No. I-" Sherlock attempted to speak again, a finger jabbing the side of his leg and a look from the woman on his right told him to not speak.

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes?"

"Actually, we were just chatting to your secretary about it outside. She told us." Queenie explained, feeling that she may as well do the thing, she added, "Quite a lovely lady." Sebastian laughed before his arrogant smile slid clean off his face, making Queenie smile broadly. His tone became business-like.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in."

Sebastian took them round the office, “Sir William’s office, the bank’s former chairman. The room’s been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night.” The three trailed behind Sebastian, Queenie in between John and Sherlock.

“What did they steal?” John asked.

“Nothing.” Sebastian paused and turned, “Just left a little message.” He opened the door with a key card. There was a beep and the door buzzed open. Queenie noticed the paint immediately. A bright yellow spray paint had been hastily used to make a line over the eyes of the former chairman, and a character had been written to the left of the portrait. It was an otherwise clean white room with large windows, filled with typical office furniture. A large chair, a desk with a pretentious lion sculpture and some filing cabinets. 

Sebastian took them back to his own office and showed them the security footage. He flicked between two images, one time-stamped at 23:33:01, the other at 23:34:01.

“Sixty seconds apart. So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute.” He told them.

“How many ways in?” Queenie asked and Sebastian looked at her, confused. “How many ways into that office?

“Well, that’s where this gets really interesting.” 

They went down to the front desk, Sebastian pulled up another system. “Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard. Every toilet." He explained.

"That door didn't open last night?" Sherlock correctly assumed.

"Obviously." Queenie moved closer to the screen as she spoke. Her comment earnt her a half pleased, half frustrated twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. Sebastian shook his head.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you. Five figures." He pulled out a cheque from the inside pocket of his blazer. A look of slight shock flitted across the eldest Watson's face, while neither Queenie nor Sherlock paid an ounce of attention to the figure. "This is only an advance. Tell me how he got in - there's a bigger one on its way." He continued, despite Sherlock and Queenie's lack of interest.

"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian." Sherlock walked away from the banker, Queenie shadowing him, John was quick to notice Sebastian's hand returning to his pocket.

"He's uh... He's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him?" He took the cheque from the other, "Thanks."

Queenie watched Sherlock examine the office. She put herself in the position of the perpetrator.

_ One minute, in and out, dead of night. _

_ Splash paint around. _

_ Alarmed doors, every single door, no point hiding anywhere. _

_ The other only way in or out? _

She walked to the nearest window. She opened it, shocked at it being unlocked, and walked through it. Sherlock watched intently. A tiny balcony met her. Fifty floors, near-vertical, the windows were bookended by beams, she leant over the balcony, placing her hand on one of the beams, she grinned. The beam could fit her hand. She imagined the strain on her arms and legs as she finally reached the floor from the ground. An aerosol can was easily strapped to a workman’s belt or carried in most jean pockets. It wouldn’t have been easy for most people, but it was possible. 

She climbed back in and closed the window, joining John to watch Sherlock. He danced around the office floor, studying the graffiti from the different angles, distracting several people from their work as they stopped to stare, John and Queenie both hopelessly watching him dart to and from various pillars and screens and then, as suddenly as he had begun his odd examination of the floor, he walked past the two siblings, beckoning them to follow him to the stairs that would lead them to the exit of the building.

"'Two trips around the world this month.'" John began, "You didn't ask his Secretary. You-" He pointed at Queenie, "-said that just to irritate him."

"Guilty." She smirked, “God, I hate being called a ‘bird’.”

"How did you know?" He questioned.

"Did you see his watch?" Sherlock asked.

"His watch?" He probed, a sceptical tone in his voice 

"The time on his watch was correct but the date was wrong." Queenie supplied.

"It was set two days ago. He crossed the dateline twice and didn't alter it." Sherlock finished.

"Within a month? How did you get that part?" 

"New Breitling." Queenie was quite pleased with herself as she explained, “It was a February release." 

"OYou think we should sniff around here a bit longer?" He suggested.

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks." 

"Hm?"

"The graffiti was a message for someone, right?" Queenie bit her lip, "That's what you were trying to work out."

"Someone working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and..." He trailed off, letting one of the Watsons finish his sentence.

"He'll lead us to the person who sent it." John finished

"Obviously." A smirk played on Sherlock's lip as he listened to the siblings interact, identical scowls on both their faces.

"Well, there are a hundred people up there, who was it meant for?"

"Pillars?" Queenie fished her phone out of her jacket pocket, feeling it vibrating.

"What?" She heard John's confused voice as she saw the several notifications, all of which were the same person, she sighed softly.

"The pillars. And the screens." Sherlock continued, "Very few places you could see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And, of course, the message was left at 11.34 last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?" John raised an eyebrow. They had reached the exit of the bank, Queenie checked the road out the corner of her eye, a familiar car was parked with a driver standing by the door.

"Traders come to work at all hours." He persisted, Queenie shrank behind Sherlock, not wanting to leave John so soon, "Some people trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight." He pulled a laminated sheet of paper out of his Belstaff, reading 'EDWARD VAN COON' in block capitals, "Not many Van Coon's in the phone book." The man had spotted Queenie. They made eye contact and she groaned as the driver moved towards her.

"Go on without me, it’s only Mycroft." She told John and Sherlock, allowing herself to be escorted into the black car. The door slamming shut just in time for her to hear Sherlock hailing a taxi.

“Congratulations, Regina." Mycroft began instantly.

“Not a single nicety? Really?” Queenie buckled her belt and the car started.

“I’m afraid not. This is something of a flying meeting. You’ll be staying with my brother, for the time being, feel free to look for private accommodation but one will be provided for you when one is found.”

“My stuff is still in my old flat.”

“Delivery will be arranged.” He handed her a single debit card.

“What’s this for?” She took it,  _ REGINA C-E HYLAND  _ was pressed into it.

“Company debit card. To be used for the purchase of cosmetics and clothing.” He gestured towards a fine leather backpack that sat on the floor of the car, “This has been recovered from your flat for your use.” She lifted it, feeling the familiar weight and opened the small front pocket. Her purse was there. And her ring.

“Thank you.” She put the debit card in her purse and closed the bag entirely, “Where are you dropping me?”

“Wherever you wish.” He replied dryly. She looked out the window, watching London slowly pass her.

“Here is fine.” She shouted to the driver, the car stopped and the driver hopped out to open the door, “Thanks, Mycroft.” She stepped out of the door.

“Regina?” Mycroft peered up at her, “I look forward to your return to work.” She smiled at him. 

“As do I.” She waved gently at him, thanked the driver and let the crowded street hide her, only just hearing the door close as she began her walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! It's pretty poggers to feel able to post this now I've finished writing the episode in full. See you soon for the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 2

"You two took your damn time," Queenie spoke the moment Sherlock and John entered the flat. She had made herself comfortable on the small sofa, bags from various clothing stores lent against the wall, she had John’s laptop on her thighs, pressing the enter key with a flourish as the two made their way into the lounge.

"That's my bloody computer!" John stormed, taking it from her.

"All of my stuff is in Venice!" She complained, “I literally had to buy a bloody capsule wardrobe to keep me going.” She turned to Sherlock, "Ah, I'm going to need to stay awhile."

"That's fine by me." Sherlock shrugged.

"Good, because I was told to." She half-smiled.

"Venice?" John asked, "Your belongings are in Venice?"

"In my flat, yeah." Queenie stretched and stood up, "I lived there for a while but I’m moving to London now. Moving to a desk job."

"So you've left your old job?" His question was innocent but Queenie's face became dark.

"No. You don’t really get to leave. You fail a job, and if you come back alive-" A small bark of laughter escaped her mouth, “- you might get shunted to a desk job in England." A look of anger mingled on her face as the room fell into silence.

"Chips!" Sherlock's voice cracked like a whip, "Let's get chips, Queenie."

"Sure." She shrugged, "You've got to practice for your interview tomorrow, John." She grabbed her trainers as she spoke, shoving her feet into them, "Don't look at me like that! It's all over your face." She inclined her head to the door, grabbing her discarded bomber jacket, evidently just purchased, as she walked towards it, "We'll get you something."

The two pairs of feet tapped down the staircase and out the door, Sherlock shutting the door after them, he pointed his gloved hand to the right and Queenie followed.

“How was Mycroft?” He asked stiffly.

“He seemed fine. I start back soon.” She sighed, her excitement - or lack thereof - was clear in her voice.

“Nervous?” She rolled her eyes at the question and nodded, “Well. Don’t be.” 

"Thanks.” She smiled, “Explain everything to me, you're dying too. I can tell." She told Sherlock, bumping her elbow into his arm. The stiffness in him died instantly, his shoulders loosened and his walk became more relaxed.

"We found Van Coon, had to break into his flat, he lived on the sixth floor." Sherlock began, marching along the street, the youngest Watson keeping pace easily despite the height difference, "Murdered in his bedroom, made to look like a suicide - convinced the police - locked from the inside, he was being threatened. He had something in his case, he'd been away for a few days, don't know where-"

"Ask his PA or secretary. City boys like that always have someone who handles everything." Queenie interrupted, "Ah, chips!" They had reached the small chip shop.

"His secretary-" Sherlock grinned wildly, "Oh, Queenie Hyland, you are brilliant!"

* * *

The morning came too early for Queenie's liking. She had taken Sherlock’s bed for the night after they had finished their food, but found herself feeling uneasy and slept poorly. She knew that Sherlock too had slept poorly, she could practically hear his thoughts.

When the sun began to rise and they both decided it would best to give up on a poor attempt, Queenie found herself enlisted by Sherlock immediately, helping him to print off pictures and pin them to the wall, surrounding the mirror and the fireplace. John woke, dressed and left as they did so. 

She sat on the sofa staring, arms and legs wrapped around one of Sherlock's pillows she had brought through, still in her new silky pyjamas. The sound of John's feet on the landing brought her out of her trance.

"I said can you pass me a pen?" Sherlock's voice snapped like a whip as a rather pink and cheerful looking John entered.

"What? When?" John asked, taken aback.

"About an hour ago." He shrugged.

"Didn't notice I'd gone out then?" He grabbed a pen and tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it deftly, "You could've asked Queenie, she's sitting right near you."

"I was thinking," She replied, fiddling with the hem of her pyjama shirt.

"I went to see about a job at that surgery." He continued, stepping forward to look at the images around the mirror.

"How was it?" Sherlock asked.

"Great. She's great."

"Who's great?" Queenie's eyes snapped to his reflection, John turned his head.

"The job." 

"She?" She raised an eyebrow.

"It." He corrected

"Sure!" Sarcasm dripped from her voice.

"John," Sherlock interrupted the squabbling siblings, stopping John from retorting, "have a look." Sherlock nodded to his open laptop, a new article on the screen.

" _ The intruder who can walk through walls. _ " John read.

"Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked. Windows bolted from the inside."

"Exactly the same as Van Coon." Queenie shook her head, her mind was racing, preventing her from focusing fully.

"God!" John exclaimed, "You think..."

"He's killed another one."

* * *

"Brian Lukis, he was a freelance journalist. Murdered in his own flat. The door locked from the inside." Queenie stood in between Sherlock and John, in front of Dimmock’s Scotland Yard desk, explaining to Dimmock whilst Sherlock searched for the article on the Detective Inspector's laptop. Sherlock spun the laptop to show the article. 

"You've got to admit it's similar." John pressed, "Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls." Dimmock's expression remained a scowl.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?" Sherlock glared down at the Inspector, who seemed slightly uncomfortable as the three pairs of eyes on him. He sighed, "You have seen the ballistics' reports, I suppose?" A small sound of confirmation from Dimmock accompanied a nod, "And the shot that killed him, was it fired from his gun?"

"No."

"No! So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel." Dimmock's eyes flitted to Queenie and John in disbelief of Sherlock's arrogance.

"Look!" Queenie’s calm voice was laced with malice, "We have just handed you a murder inquiry on a silver platter." The Inspector was taken aback by the woman's sudden anger bubbling beneath her eyes, "Five minutes in his flat." She demanded. Fully aware that the entire department was watching him being threatened and intimidated by someone who was quite obviously wearing a pyjama shirt with her jeans and hardly reached 5’6". Slowly, but surely, he sighed and nodded.

* * *

They ducked underneath the crime scene tape and up the staircase to Lukis' flat. It was messy, clothes hung, on doors and piles of books haphazardly stacked on the stairs. 

"Queenie." Sherlock spoke from the window, "Four floors up."

"Oh, easy." She rolled her eyes, "Give me something challenging."

"That's why they think they're safe, put a chain across the door. Bolt it shut. You think you're impregnable." He thought aloud.

"They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in." Queenie finished, Dimmock looked dimly between the two.

"I don't understand." He asked, following Sherlock around the small flat towards a skylight.

"We're dealing with a killer who can climb. Well trained by the looks of it." She explained, watching the consulting detective stare at the window.

"What are you doing?" He directed his question to Sherlock.

"Clings to the wall like an insect." He opened the skylight, "That's how he got in."

"What?" Dimmock and Queenie followed behind Sherlock. 

"He climbed along the side of the walls," Queenie said, picturing hands on the wall of the building, quickly moving up it. The feeling that your centre of gravity had moved and was no longer your own tugged at her heart, "Ran along the roof." As if echoes from the past, she heard fast-moving feet along the roof she turned her body, keeping an eye on where the noise came from, "Probably stooped down, minimising the chance of being seen." She bent her legs slightly, in order to prove her point, "Dropped through this skylight." She pointed to the skylight as her mind's eye created the image of a figure in black attire pulling the window open and sliding through it, successfully entering the flat undetected by anyone but their victim.

"You can't be serious? Like Spider-Man?" The Inspector asked. Queenie glowered at him.

“It’s an easy task, I’d show you myself if you really wanted me to. He scaled six floors of a Dockland apartment building, jumped the balcony and killed Van Coon." Sherlock began.

"Oh, hold on..." Dimmock interrupted scathingly but was stopped from continuing by Sherlock's louder voice.

"And of course that's how he got into the bank. He'd run along within the ledge and onto the terrace." He took a step back away from the window, Queenie nodded, "We have to find out what connects these two men." He looked at the staircase he had been standing on, something caught his eye, he hopped down, lifting a book up, opening it to find 'West Kensington Library' stamped into the corner of the page. He slammed it shut and began to half run down to the door.

* * *

Following the Dewey decimal system, the trio walked purposefully through the library, they found the shelf of books that the Lukis' book-matched, Asian politics.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day Lukis died," Sherlock told the two who were following closely behind him. The three began taking books down, John and Queenie back to back.

"Sherlock? Queenie?" John spoke, she whipped around and looked over her brother's shoulder, Sherlock removed a handful of books, revealing the same graffiti that had been found in the bank.

* * *

Sherlock pinned the printed out pictures to the mirror, he stood, staring hard at the images.

"So," Queenie began, she had sat down on the floor with a steaming mug of black coffee in her hands, "The killer goes to the bank, leaves the cypher - the threat - for Van Coon."

"Van Coon panics, goes back to his flat and locks himself inside. Just hours later..." Sherlock continued.

"...he dies." She put her head in hands, the mug on the floor in the centre of her crossed leg.

"The killer finds Lukis at the library," She heard John say, "he writes the cypher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home."

"Late that night, he dies too." A beat passed.

"But why? Why do they die?" She whispered to the floor.

"Only the cypher can tell us." The sound of Sherlock's finger tapping the mirror, then he turned, leant down to Queenie, "Let’s go.” It was robotic in the way she stood and drank the rest of her coffee. She looked alert behind the eyes but didn’t seem to be seeing what was in front of her. Sherlock passed her jacket to her.

“I recognise it and I can’t-” She let out a frustrated sigh, “- I just can’t think right. I get to the page in the book and it’s just covered in- ugh.” She flicked her hand, trying to get an invisible substance off.

In her mind’s eye, she was in a small apartment, the sun shone through long voile curtains as a balmy breeze filled the room. She had dragged her hand across the bookshelf and gently lifted a leatherbound book on cyphers off the shelf. She took it out onto the balcony and opened it. There were pages and pages on cyphers, codes and puzzles. She flicked through, knowing the page she wanted to be on, the chapter header, the layout. When she reached it, a deep red stain covered it. She touched it, gently and felt the slight stickiness of the blood. She heard the book drop and snapped back into reality.

“Let’s go.” She nodded to Sherlock.

* * *

"The world runs on codes and cyphers, John." Sherlock explained, walking through the crowd that surrounded Trafalgar Square, "From the million-pound security system at the bank to the pin machine you took exception to. Cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

"Yes, okay, but?" John replied.

"But it's all computer-generated, electronic codes, electronic cyphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device." Sherlock answered his question, "Modern code-breaking methods can't unravel it. Queenie, I believe, already tried." He looked to her, who nodded immediately.

"None of my methods worked." She shrugged, digging her hands further into her pockets.

"Where are we headed?" John prompted. They were walking up the stairs to the National Gallery.

"I need to ask for some advice." He admitted.

"What?" A smirk played on John's face, "Sorry?" Sherlock sighed.

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

"You need advice?" A taunting tone obvious in his voice.

"On painting. Yes, I need to talk to an expert."

Sherlock led the two into an alley behind the National Gallery, a teenager stood by a rear door, decked in a hoodie, cap and jeans several sizes too big for the scrawny teen. An aerosol can in his hand, spraying a stencil onto the door. Without turning, he spoke.

"Part of my new exhibition."

"Oh, how interesting." Queenie drawled.

"I call it 'Urbanbloodlustfrenzy'." Raz explained, the image was of a police officer with a pig's face.

"Mm." John mused, "Catchy."

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner." He nodded to the corner of the building, "Can we maybe talk whilst I'm working?" Sherlock offered him his mobile phone, the image of the cypher, Raz half tossed the can to John - who caught it deftly - and took the phone from Sherlock.

"Know the author?" Queenie asked.

"I know the paint. Looks like Michigan, hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc." He explained, returning the mobile to Sherlock.

"And what about the symbols? Do you recognise them?" She pressed.

"It's not a tag." He shrugged, "I'm not sure it's a proper language."

"Two men have been murdered, Raz." Sherlock interjected, "Deciphering this - it's the key to finding who killed them."

"And this all you’ve got to go on? It’s hardly much now, is it?"

“Are you going to help us or not?” Sherlock felt Queenie’s anger rise. She was unpredictable at the moment.

"I’ll ask around." Raz conceded. Apparently feeling the same rise of anger in the young woman.

"Someone must know something about it." Sherlock pressed as a Community Officer came round the corner.

"Oi!" The Officer clapped eyes with John, Raz's aerosol can still in his hand. Raz kicked his kit bag towards John as Queenie - using the reflexes born of her criminal days as a teenager - grabbed Sherlock by his elbow and ran away, her hand slipping down his arm, into his hand. 

Sherlock flagged down a taxi the moment he and Queenie had reached the street. He opened the door and Queenie climbed in, she laughed, adrenaline rushed through her veins. God, she loved it.

"Baker Street, please." He asked the driver who simply smiled at them in the mirror and began to drive.

"I'm guessing you and John never spoke about me?" Queenie asked as they pulled away from Trafalgar Square, Sherlock didn't reply, "But you did about Harry?"

"I didn't know  _ you  _ had a brother or a sister, he had Harry's old phone," Sherlock told her, looking away from her.

"Don't lie." She scoffed, "You could tell. I avoid conversation regarding family, it's quite obvious with my prior occupation why I do so. Everyone has parents, but not everyone has a sibling, I have two." She tapped her fingers along the door handle, the other hand clenched in her lap, "Then when you met John for the first time, you put two and two together." Still, Sherlock didn't meet her gaze, "You pretend to be so icy cold and distant, but you didn’t see anything. You did that to protect John, didn't you?" She practically spat it at him. 

"You two hardly get along anyway." His voice was clear and sharp, "You think John is overbearing and he always wanted you to stop putting yourself in dangerous situations." He expected Queenie to shout, to tell him that he was wrong, to call him an arsehole, maybe even slap him. She leant over and squeezed his arm softly and sighed.

"It's a difficult dynamic. John and Harry are two years apart." She rubbed her thumb along the stitching on his coat, "So for years, John and Harry and our parents had the perfect 'cereal packet' family, then I came along. Changed everything." She sighed, "John and Harry helped raise me. But they both also confused the hell out of me. I was six when Harry went to university, I didn't understand it at all, I mean, we'd sit at mealtimes and talk about the lessons they were taking and I didn't know what a word of it meant, I was too busy learning to read and count to bother with fine arts or A-level biology, but John was still there, though sometimes he was with a different girlfriend than the one last week," Sherlock chuckled at her words, "-still a hopeless romantic? Good. Then two years after Harry moved out, John moved out. I was just confused all the time. Then when I wrap my head around everything, something else would come up.” She swallowed, “I was lonely."

"So you turned to what made sense?" Sherlock suggested.

"No." She pulled her hand away from Sherlock's arm gently, "I turned to what felt good, I knew it was stupid. You do the same thing. Endorphins releasing feel good, being so high you can't remember where you live feels good, dopamine and adrenaline rushing around your system feels so good. God, being on a tall building and feeling the wind rush past you." Her seatbelt clicked open as she opened the door, the taxi slowed down at a pair of traffic lights that shone red, "I'll meet you at Baker Street." She abandoned Sherlock in the cab and walked away into the nearest crowd

"When?" Sherlock asked her, but she had already disappeared. Her quick actions had surprised him, she was far from happy.

"Oh, having a bit of a fight with your girlfriend? A little domestic?" The cabbie asked, furrowing his brow.

"She's not my girlfriend." He replied stiffly, he was searching for her in the crowd, despite his frustration, he had to admit, she was good at her job.

"Oh, sonny, I've heard that one before."

* * *

Allowing her feet to carry her where they wished, Queenie walked through London, searching for a good building to climb. She came across a barren street with a large abandoned office building. And she ran, full pelt, at the building, leaping to grab the top of a window frame.

As she climbed the building with ease, Queenie's mind wandered to when she had first climbed up a building in the dead of night, her forearms screaming in agony, her shoulders feeling as if they were going to dislocate. She had scraped the entirety of her left leg that night, she still had scars from the injuries, though they were hidden amongst much deeper, much more recent scars.

Without realising it, Queenie had reached the top of the office block, the wind rustling her hair as she stared around the city beneath her, she knew she wasn't far from Baker Street and could surely reach it from where she stood, towering over the world. Yet she felt a pang as she looked around, she recognised the signs of people living on the roof - an old and worn sleeping bag, a pair of trainers that looked too new and several empty packets of food that had been left recently, many of them clearly from a McDonald's chain restaurant. Nevertheless, she found the centre point of the roof - safe, away from prying eyes - took her backpack off, and lay down.

She felt guilty. Guiltier than she usually did. She hadn’t lied to John, she had changed her legal name when she was entering her leave of absence. And she missed Venice. Gently, she pulled a delicate chain from around her neck - she had bought it to hold her ring and now held the ring in her hand, she put it on her finger, knowing that it would be too big. She stared at the sky and let her mind escape into her Venetian apartment.


	4. Chapter 3

"Just here, please," Queenie told the taxi driver as the cab slowed in front of 221B Baker Street, getting her purse out of her backpack. She had laid on the roof for some time, considering her childhood, her brother, her work. Working herself into distraction, she had slipped and grazed her knuckles. She recovered quickly. The cab stopped and, as Queenie passed a twenty-pound note to the driver, John and Sherlock appeared from the front door, Sherlock’s coat whipped as he walked swiftly away. The angry look on John’s face melted into one of surprise, "Can you wait a moment?" She asked the cabbie, who nodded.

"Where the hell have you been?" John asked the moment she opened the door and stepped out.

"Just hanging out on the top of an office building." She answered, “Why, what happened with the copper?”

"I got charged for criminal damage." He snarled, “They’re giving me an ASBO.”

"Oh. Not too bad then." 

“ _Not too bad_ ?” He rolled his eyes, “It’s not exactly _great_ , now is it? And didn’t you just trespass?”

“They’re not exactly going to see me lying on an office building. And if they did, they’re not exactly good at chasing people.” She retorted, dryly, then added, "Where are we going?"

He opened his mouth, ready to tell her that she wasn’t going anywhere. Then seemed to resign himself to acceptance, ”We’re going to Scotland Yard," She climbed back into the cab, John following behind her, "we need Lukis’ diary, apparently.” He shot a glare in the direction of the window of 221B. Evidently, Sherlock had put him up to it.

"Dimmock again?" A smirk played at the corner of her mouth. John fought a grin as he nodded, "Scotland Yard, please!”

* * *

Dimmock’s face immediately became a scowl when the two arrived, side by side. The woman had asked another officer so kindly where Dimmock’s desk was, her voice honey-sweet, and grinned warmly at him, her eyes icy cold. 

“Thank you so much for your help!” She cooed at the officer, they disappeared and she locked eyes with Dimmock. “We need Lukis’ diary or a planner, something along those lines.” Queenie stated, feeling as if a preamble would be useless.

“I'll need to see some ID.” Dimmock crossed his arms, looking pleased with himself.

“To prove what?” She asked, taking her backpack off of one shoulder.

“You're cleared to take evidence.” He explained, a shit-eating grin on his face as he lied through his teeth.

“You're not telling the truth, even if you were-” She showed her ID, “I’m cleared to take any evidence I require.” Dimmock stared at the ID, disbelief deep in his eyes, “And I wouldn’t recommend talking to your superiors like that.”

* * *

“Secret Agent Hyland, damn her, she’s got to be the one to take it.” The Detective Inspector muttered, rummaging through a box of evidence with John by his shoulder, “Your friends…”

“Associate.” Queenie corrected, looking over some of the other evidence at the end of the table.

“Listen, whatever you say about Sherlock, I'm behind you a hundred per cent.”

“Well,” he spoke quietly as to not let Queenie overhear him, “she's scary and he's an arrogant sod.”

“Well.” He felt genuinely surprised, “That was mild. People usually say a lot worse than that.”

“This is what you wanted, isn't it?” Dimmock asked, offering John a pocket diary, “The journalist's diary.” 

“That's it, yeah, thanks.” Queenie looked up and walked over to John, looking at the diary over his shoulder, a plane ticket reading “DALIAN” bookmarking the page. John passed it to her to take. She flicked through it as Dimmock printed the paperwork for her to sign.

It appeared that - quite unlike his flat - Lukis’ diary was well organised, everything he did seemed to be in the small book, from weeks spent in China to dates with various people that never seemed to call back. She signed the paperwork and left, John tailing her closely.

“There’s an address there.” Queenie pointed to a small scrawled section of writing as they left the building, ‘The Lucky Cat Shop’, “We can tube there, it’s near Piccadilly.”

“How do you know that? Have you been there before?”

“No,” She replied, innocently, “I know the postcode.”

“ _How?”_

“There should be a train in -” She checked her watch, “-seven minutes, come on.” She walked purposefully and John felt a frustration building in him that only Sherlock had ever been able to cause.

* * *

“Where now?” John asked as they stood by an Italian restaurant, “Where’s the place?”

“There.” Queenie pointed to the shop as her brother, who had been turning in circles, made a loud grunt as another person collided with him.

“Right,” John grunted.

“Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died.” Sherlock’s voice babbled, clearly excited, “Whatever was inside that case…” John attempted to interrupt him, yet Sherlock continued to speak, “I’ve managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information.”

“Sherlock-”

“Credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here.”

“Sherlock.” Queenie spoke this time.

“Somewhere in this street, somewhere near. I don’t where but-”

“That shop.” Queenie pointed to the shop, “Over there.” Sherlock’s face became confused.

“How could you tell?”

“Lukis’ diary.” John explained, looking silently pleased with himself, “He was here too. He wrote down the address.”

“Oh.” As John made a beeline towards the Lucky Cat Shop, Sherlock grabbed Queenie’s wrist, she carried on walking, her hand wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s as she dragged him behind her. “Where were you?” He pulled her arm in order to stop her, she whipped her head around as if to ask ‘Really?’ mutely.

“Me? With John. At Scotland Yard.” She hissed, as they followed John, a raised eyebrow told her of Sherlock’s building anger, “I was. Before that I was at Baker Street for maybe a minute, before that, I was scratching my knuckles climbing down a building. Why? Worried?”

“No!” His voice adopted a defence tone, it was Queenie’s turn to raise a single, unamused, eyebrow, “I was curious.” He spoke smoothly, covering his outburst easily.

“Curious?” She let out a small bark of laughter, “Oh, William. Do you think I haven’t heard that before? Don’t be an idiot.” She sneered.

“You know, _Regina_ , I really hate you and Mycroft when you’re together.” He put the same emphasis on Queenie’s name that she had on his name, she shot him another one of her characteristic glares, a hint of a smile in her blue eyes, and then, as if he had never seen the two together, Sherlock was struck by how similar she looked to John. The glares, the eyes, their personality, Hell, Queenie was only an inch shorter than John. He’d known they looked similar, but never quite realised how prominent it was.

“It would’ve been nice to be told. I looked at your file.” She rolled her eyes, “At least my name is short.” She let his wrist go, “Hurry up.”

They entered the small shop, John muttering a quick greeting as they did so.

“You want lucky cat?” The store owner asked before the door had even shut properly, holding a gold lucky cat up.

“No, thanks, no.” John refused politely.

“Ten pound! Ten pound!” She pushed, she looked at Sherlock, “I think your wife, she will like!” She shot a look at Sherlock and Queenie as they both stood near each other, viewing similar wares, determinedly ignoring her.

“So dusty.” Queenie murmured to herself, dragging her index finger along the wooden shelf, removing a thick layer of dust, leaving a line that was shiny in comparison to the rest of the store, wondering vaguely how the store managed to stay open if it had that much dust on the shelf.

“Hey, you two?” John called from the other side of the tiny shop, holding a porcelain teacup, looking at the base, “The label there.” Both Queenie and Sherlock walked across to where John stood.

“Yes, I see it,” Sherlock spoke, almost towering over John as he saw the cup before Queenie could.

“Hmm?” She peered at the label that had been stuck to the cup. The cypher was clearly written in biro onto the label.

“It’s exactly the same as the cypher.” A moment passed, and Sherlock’s mouth fell open, his eyes darted to Queenie, whose blue eyes hadn’t left the porcelain cup, her lips firmly pressed into a line.

“Oh!” He hissed, grabbing Queenie by the elbow and marching out of the small shop without speaking to the owner, John hot on his heels.  
“It’s an ancient number system, Hangzhou.” Sherlock explained, looking around the street, the symbols were everywhere, from the window of a deli to a fruit and vegetable stall they walked past, “These days only street traders use it.”

“They were numbers on the wall at the bank and at the library.” Queenie ran her fingers through her hair, bitterly regretting not putting it into a ponytail, not that she had any hair ties with her anyway.

“Numbers in an ancient Chinese dialect.” Sherlock confirmed, walking towards one of the stalls and examining the wares, looking at the tags

“It’s fifteen.” John spoke, “What we thought was the artist’s tag, it’s a number fifteen?”

“And the blindfold, the horizontal line, that’s a number too.” She remarked, picking up a bok choy from the stall, Sherlock held up a small tag that had been on the cruciferous vegetable, on it, a horizontal line and “£1”

“The Chinese number one.” He grinned, the stall owner pulling the tag out of his hand and the bok choy out of Queenie’s, his indignation written clearly on his face.

“We found it.” John’s face split into a grin, looking at his sister with excitement in his eyes, yet it slipped away as Sherlock stormed past him.

* * *

Sherlock led the two into a dingy, damp cafe, directly opposite of The Lucky Cat, John ordering a full English breakfast for himself and a pot of Earl Grey tea for Queenie as she sat in a rickety wooden chair, facing the window. She knew the Hangzhou system, or she at least had, it felt like a lifetime ago she had been in China, yet it had only been two years ago she had last visited the country. Yet she knew she could still speak Cantonese, so why - she kept asking herself - could she not recognise Hangzhou? 

“-’s not what they saw.” She heard Sherlock say as she gazed out of the window, not looking at anything, in particular, he sighed deeply, “It’s what they both brought back in those suitcases.”

“And you don’t mean duty-free.” John mused. The trio lapsed into silence, Queenie having nothing to add to the conversation, but a vague and slightly confused ‘thanks’ as a waitress placed a steaming pot of tea, a small jug of milk and a mug in front of her. Both Watsons became briefly occupied by their orders, allowing Sherlock a moment to think.

“Think about what Sebastian told us.” Sherlock’s eyes darted from John, who was still busying himself with his breakfast, to Queenie’s distracted face, “About Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market.”

“Lost five million,” John remembered.

“Made it back in a week.” Sherlock looked at the shop through the window, meaningfully, “That’s how he made such easy money.”

“He was a smuggler.” Queenie half nodded to the Lucky Cat Shop as she spoke, holding her mug in both hands, the warmth radiating through the cheap mug.

“I reckon he would’ve been perfect.” 

“City boy like that, making frequent trips to Asia, nothing suspicious about that.” She shrugged, “Lukis was a journalist, writing about China, logically you visit China regularly.”

“Both of them smuggled stuff about. The Lucky Cat was their drop-off.” Sherlock concluded.

“But why did they die?” John questioned, Queenie tried to stifle a yawn, “It doesn’t make sense. If they both turned up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they’d finished the job?” He finished, ignoring Queenie’s yawn. Silence fell once more as Sherlock pondered John’s question.

“Isn’t it obvious?” She shook her head at the two of them, “One of them must have been light-fingered.” It was Sherlock’s turn to let out a sigh.

“How do you mean?” 

“Stole something, it’s not hard when you’re already smuggling other things.” She explained.

“Something from the hoard.” Sherlock continued, John’s expression had turned from one of confusion to understanding.

“And the killer doesn’t know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right.” He nodded.

“Not like they can take it to the police. The Yard probably wouldn’t take a smuggling confession very well.” Ignoring Queenie’s comment, Sherlock was staring, as Queenie had, out of the window. but looking not directly at the shop, but slightly to the left, to a door with chipped cream paint, a new copy of the Yellow Pages leant against it.

“Remind me.” He said after a moment, “When was the last time it rained?” He stood and left the cafe. Queenie left her practically full cup of tea without a second thought - not waiting for John as she did so - following him out to the door to the flat, she examined the small name tab reading “SOO LIN YAO” as Sherlock ripped the cellophane bag that held the telephone directory open and ran his thumb along the swollen pages.

“It’s been here since Monday,” Sherlock said, standing.

“I haven’t even been here since Monday,” Queenie remarked, now examining the wall, her hands once again itching to find the perfect crevice to pull herself up, Sherlock’s hand slipping past her arm to press the doorbell.

“No one’s been in this flat for at least three days.” He continued, ignoring Queenie’s interruption.

“Could've just gone on holiday?” John suggested, yet both Queenie and Sherlock were already making their way through the alley next to the doorway, John scuttled after them.

“Do you leave your windows open when you go away?” Sherlock pointed to the window above the alley, clearly wide open. Before either Watson could do anything, Sherlock jumped, grabbing and pulling the fire escape down and climbed back up to the door.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, he grabbed Queenie's wrist as she took a step back, “Nope. You're not doing that!”

“But-” She argued, feeling like a child as she was scolded.

“Come on.” He grumbled, pulling her back down the alley.

Queenie leant against the wall as John shouted into the letterbox, calling for Sherlock, as Sherlock's incoherent replies became fewer, pushing John to resort to mockery.

“ _I'm Sherlock, and I always work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect_.” He yelled into the flat, causing Queenie to roll her eyes and kick him softly with her toe.

“Shut it.” She whispered. As John opened his mouth to reply, the door opened suddenly, Sherlock in the doorway.

“The milk’s gone off and the washing’s starting to smell. Someone left here in a hurry, three days ago.” He explained, his voice incredibly hoarse.

“Sorry, who?” Queenie asked, taken aback by the sudden croak in Sherlock's voice.

“Soo Lin Yao.” He gasped, referring to the name label on the doorbell, “We have to find her.”

“How exactly?” John asked. Queenie ducked down and picked an envelope that had been shoved in the letterbox and had landed on the mat inside the door. A note had been written on the back and the envelope had been folded, ensuring the note was on top.

“ _Soo Lin_ _  
_ _Please ring me tell me you're OK_ _  
_ _Andy_ ”

She unfolded it to reveal the words “ _National Antiquities Museum”_

“We could start with this?” She suggested, passing it to Sherlock, he nodded and they began walking.

“You've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?” John asked, concernedly.

After letting out a pained cough, Sherlock responded with an affirmation, ignoring Queenie's suspicious sideways glance. She waited until John was concentrating on flagging a cab - none of which seemed to notice him.

“What happened?” Queenie whispered

“Someone had been there already. Size eight feet, tall, but not heavy. Long thin fingers.”

“Our acrobat?” She mused. Sherlock nodded curtly.

“He hadn't left.” He took an origami flower made of black paper out of his pocket and gave it to Queenie, “Same paper Van Coon had in his mouth.” He explained as she flipped it in her fingers.

“So that's why you're croaky.” She hissed. “You were strangled.” She spoke in a quietly firm voice.

“-Antiquities Museum?” John's voice spoke to a cab driver, thankfully unaware of the conversation, “Thanks. You two. Come on.”

* * *

Upon arrival at the museum, Queenie took charge. She spoke to a member of the front desk team, flashed her ID and had the three escorted to where Andy Galbraith was working.

“Andy?” The curly-haired man turned when Queenie said his name, “I’m Special Agent Hyland, this is Detective Holmes and Doctor Watson. We just wanted to ask you some questions in regards to your colleague Soo Lin Yao.” She spoke gently to the young man. He seemed anxious at best. He nodded and she gave Sherlock a nod.

“When was the last time you saw her?” He paced the room as he spoke.

“Three days ago. Umm, here at the museum.” Sherlock stopped in front of the antiquities, “This morning they told me she’d resigned. Just like that. Left her work unfinished.”

“What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?” Queenie watched Sherlock work, taking in each item speedily.

“It’s uh, it’s easier for me to show you.” He gulped as he spoke. 

“That’s fine. Go ahead.” She encouraged gently.

Andy took them into the storage of the museum, opening the blue double doors as he spoke, “She does this demonstration for the tourists, a tea ceremony.” The four got closer to the storage system. Several lockers, each opened with a wheel, “So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here.” He spun the corresponding wheel to open the storage more, John watched, curiously. Queenie shifted her eyes to sherlock. He was looking into the shadows of the storage room. She followed his eye line and felt her heart skip. A statue of Venus had the cypher sprayed on. John and Andy had noticed the two get closer to the statue. 

Sherlock had taken photos of the bust as Queenie thanked Andy for his help, assuring him that they were doing all they could. Then they had left. It had fallen dark while they were inside. 

“We have to get to Soo Lin Yao.” Sherlock said.

“If she’s still alive.” John replied.

“Sherlock!” A voice shouted and Raz appeared.

“Oh, look who it is.”

“Found something you’ll like.” He hardly paused as he spoke, his body in continuous motion. Queenie didn’t ask any questions she just followed him, John and Sherlock flanking her through the streets of London.

None of them spoke until they were crossing a bridge.

“Tuesday morning, all you’ve got to do is turn and say the bag was yours.” John told Raz.

“Forget about your court date.” Sherlock sneered back.

“It’s only an ASBO.” She received a glare from John for that as they entered a skatepark. Queenie was struck by a vague memory of meeting a dealer there what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Dude, that was rad!” A girl’s voice shouted as a boy on a BMX landed a trick. The walls were coated in graffiti.

“You want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock asked, rhetorically, “People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message.”

“There.” Raz pointed to remains of yellow paint that had been covered with another, fresh piece of work, “I spotted it earlier.” Sure enough, the 15 cypher was clearly there.

“They’ve been here. And that’s the exact same paint?” 

“Yeah.” Raz nodded. 

“John. Queenie. If we’re going to decipher this code, we’re gonna need to look for more evidence.” The two nodded as they were addressed.

“I’ll go up top. It’s always a good place to hide canisters.” She suggested, with approval from Sherlock, ran towards the wall and started climbing the skate park wall and cursing the texture of the spray paint making the walls slippy. One of the girls gave her a whoop of congratulation. She laughed, gave a wink and a salute and took off into the night.

She had reached the top of the bridge before the burn in her lungs had taken over. She stopped to breathe and noticed John walking along the rails below her, his torch closely following the railway sleepers. His torch rose up the wall and she instinctively shrank back into the shadows, grateful she had opted for a dark jacket. He took a step back and then fished his phone out, taking a photo then dialling furiously. She watched as it went through to voicemail. He sighed and began to run towards where Sherlock said he’d be.

A hand gripped Queenie’s shoulder. Long thin fingers. Just as Sherlock had told her. She slammed her elbow into their body, she felt the soft impact into a slim body. She swung her body round a ducked to dodge a fist, grabbing hold of one of their legs to pull them down. They shoved her head down, face-first into the concrete. Her nose made an impact and she felt the blood trickle down into her mouth. Dazed from the impact, it took her moment to feel the tug on her neck. They had grabbed her necklace and pulled it tight to choke her out with, her ring pressed into her skin. Fury flushed hot in her body and she threw them off her. She heard them leave before she stood back up. 

When she looked down from the bridge, neither Sherlock nor John were there. She wiped her nose and breathed deeply, embarrassed to have not won the fight. She was so out of practice and she had gotten hurt. She felt her shoulder where they had grabbed her. Of course, her injury had reopened. She walked to the other side of the bridge where there was a drain pipe halfway down. An easier climb.

She stood in front of the wall that John had been staring at. It was perfectly painted black. When she touched it, it was just slightly sticky and left a small amount of residue on her fingers.

“Queenie!” John shouted a few minutes later. She turned to see both him and Sherlock slowing their runs to a walk, “Your face-” Then he saw the wall, “It’s been painted over.” Sherlock shone his torch into the shadows, “I don’t understand. It was here.” He stepped backwards, “Ten minutes ago. I saw it. A whole load of graffiti. Did you see it?” He asked Queenie. She shook her head.

“I was at the top of the bridge.” She told him.

“Somebody doesn’t want me to see it.” He breathed deeply and then grabbed John’s head.

“Sherlock, what are you-” John scrunched his eyes up.

“Ssh! John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes.”

“What? Why? Why? What are you doing?” Sherlock moved his hands to hold his upper arms and spinning him in circles.

“I need you to maximise your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?” They continued spinning.

“Yeah.”

“Can you remember it?” Queenie swallowed a laugh. She had done the same exercise once before.

“Yes, definitely.”

“Can you remember the pattern?” The very memory of the exercise made her head swim.

“Yes.”

“How much can you remember it?” Sherlock’s intensity rose.

“Look, don’t worry.”

“Because the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry, I remember all of it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He struggled free of Sherlock’s grip at last, “Well, at least I would if I could get to my pockets. I took a photograph.” He managed to get his hands on his phone and opened the photo. Sure enough, it was covered in cyphers. The bricks red and unpainted.

* * *

The printer in 221B chugged while John shone a light in Queenie’s eyes. She flinched, but he seemed pleased as her pupil constricted. He touched her nose, gently, feeling for brakes.

“Oh, it’s definitely not broken, I know what that feels like.” She laughed gently. She was sat in her trousers and a camisole on the living room floor, him kneeling next to her with a first aid kit at his feet. The jacket and shirt she had been wearing were soaking in the sink. He turned his attention to her shoulder.

“How long have you had this?” He prodded it.

“Couple months. Keep busting it open.” She replied, “It’s smaller though so I’m not worried.” Nevertheless, he cleaned and dressed the gash. 

Sherlock pinned the printed photo to the mirror, whilst John had helped Queenie, he had written the numbers on. She clambered to her feet and stood next to him. 

“Always in pairs, John, look.” He spoke, John was half asleep at the small table, “Numbers. Come with partners.”

“God, I need to sleep.” He groaned.

“Why is it so near to the tracks?” Queenie asked.

“No idea.” John’s reply was short.

“Thousands of people pass by there every day.” She continued.

“Just 20 minutes.” He sighed.

“Of course. Of course, he wants information. He’s trying to communicate with his people in the underworld.” Sherlock’s excitement.

“He wants his stolen goods back.” Queenie nodded.

“It’s somewhere here, in a code.” He grabbed different sheets of the mirror, “We can’t crack this without Soo Lin Yao.”

“Oh, good.” John groaned.

* * *

The antiquities museum was dark and silent. Queenie observed the exhibits from the ceiling. When Sherlock had discovered that one of the pots had been treated, they had devised the plan. 

Soo Lin appeared, gently grabbed one of the teapots and walked towards the other room. Silently, Queenie followed. She nodded to Sherlock as they met eyes, both moving towards Soo Lin from the floor and ceiling. She poured the tea contently. She clearly found joy in her work as she failed to notice Sherlock getting closer to her.

“Fancy a biscuit with that?” Sherlock’s sudden question shocked the woman, causing her to drop the teapot. Sherlock caught it and passed it back to her, “Centuries old. Don’t want to break that.” Queenie flicked a light switch as she climbed down, “Hello.” He smiled.

“You saw the cypher. Then you know he is coming for me.” She refused to make eye contact with either person as Queenie made her way towards the two.

“You’ve been clever to avoid him so far.” She remarked, “Good hiding spot.” John’s footsteps crept in and the four sat around Soo Lin work’s bench

“I had to finish. To finish this work.” She looked at her tea tray, “It’s only a matter of time, I know he will find me.”

“Who is he? Have you met him before?” Sherlock asked and Soo Lin gulped. 

“When I was a girl, we met in China. I recognised his… signature…”

“The cypher?” He asked.

“Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu.”

“Zhi Zhu?” John asked.

“The spider.” Queenie replied. Soo Lin slowly took her shoe off, showing a tattoo of a lotus in black ink.

“You know this mark?”

“Yes. It’s the mark of a Tong.” Sherlock spoke.

“Hmm?” John turned towards Sherlock.

“It’s an ancient crime syndicate, based in China.” Queenie supplied the answer, then added in a mutter, “I thought I recognised the fighting style.”

“Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who hauls for them.”

“Hauls?” She looked up at John, who blinked, “You… you mean you were a smuggler?” Shame struck Soo Lin’s face as she put her shoe back on. Queenie frowned, knowing that it hadn’t been a choice.

“I was fifteen, my parents were dead. I had no livelihood. No way of surviving, day-to-day, except to work for the bosses.”

“Who were they?” 

“They are called the Black Lotus. By the time I was 16, I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England. They gave me a job here.” She smiled and a cry caught in her throat, “Everything was good. New life.”

“He came looking for you?”

“Yes. I hoped, after five years maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave. A small community like ours, they are never very far away.” She wiped tears from eyes, “He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen.”

“And you have no idea what it was?” John asked. 

“I refused to help.” She shook her head.

“So, you knew him well when you were living back in China?”

“Oh, yes.” Soo Lin’s nod and a sad smile broke Queenie’s heart. She knew what she was about to say, “He’s my brother.” Sherlock’s mouth opened slightly in surprise, “Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet. In the power of the one, they call Shan. The Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day, I came to work and the cypher was waiting.” Sherlock took the photos from his pocket and showed them to Soo Lin, each photo lit by the light of the workbench. Recognition crossed Soo Lin’s face.

“Can you decipher these?”

“There are numbers.” She pointed to the 1 and 15 cyphers.

“Yes, I know.”

“Here, the line across the man’s eyes, it’s the Chinese number one.”

“And this one is 15. But what’s the code?”

“All the smugglers know it. I based upon a book-'' As she spoke, the lights turned off and a door thudded. A rush of adrenaline went through Queenie. They all stood up straight, “He’s here.” he took a deep breath, “Zhi Zhu has found me.” Sherlock and Queenie both took off.

“No, no, Sherlock. Queenie, wait!” John’s voice chased after them, but both ignored it.

They ran to the main hall, a figure overhead shot at them and they dived in separate directions and then hid behind the same statue. Sherlock sat whereas Queenie held herself in a squat.

“I don’t have anything on me.” Queenie hissed to Sherlock. More gunshots rang out and she cursed, knowing John couldn’t not follow them. The footsteps rescinded from the balcony and she leapt into action, Sherlock following close behind. They sprinted up the stairs and into an exhibit. She split from him quickly, knowing it’d be more difficult for the gunman. They stopped behind separate pillars and Sherlock shouted.

“Careful!” Another gunshot, “Some of those skulls are over 200,000 years old. Have a bit of respect!” He panted and they stopped, “Thank you.” They met eyes and she watched as Sherlock’s heart dropped and nodded. She peeked around and saw no one. She paused, momentarily and then ran, heart racing, towards where Soo Lin was. She reached the hall where John stood and slowed in time to hear another shot ring out. 

“Oh, my God.” He looked over his shoulder at Queenie and they both began to run, “Don’t look.” He said as they entered the room they had left her in. She shook her head and moved forward nonetheless. She lay on the table, an origami black lotus gently placed on her hand.

A breath caught in Queenie’s throat. It wasn’t the first dead body she had seen, it wasn’t even the freshest body she’d seen. John’s soft groans and his urge to protect her from seeing Soo Lin overwhelmed her.

“I’m going to call the police.” She told John and stepped away.

“You okay?” He asked over his shoulder. She smiled sadly at him and nodded.


	5. Chapter 4

They were stood in Scotland Yard, the office half empty and poorly lit. “How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac’s out there?” Dimmock ignored John’s question, “A young girl was gunned down tonight. That’s three victims in three days. You’re supposed to be finding him.”

“Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London right under your nose.” Sherlock sneered at him, imposing himself on Dimmock’s personal space.

“Can you prove that?” He asked, an eyebrow raised.

* * *

Sherlock took Queenie up to the cafeteria of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. A young woman with a messy side bun looked at the food. John left to stand awkwardly with Dimmock in the reception.

“What are you thinking? Pork or pasta?” Sherlock asked. She jumped and turned.

“Oh, it’s you.” She said with a laugh.

“I suppose it’s never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it? I’d stick with the pasta. Don’t want to be doing roast pork, not if you’re slicing up cadavers.” She smiled, then seemed to notice Queenie.

“Hi.” She smiled at the woman.

“Oh, yes. This is my associate, Queenie Hyland. Queenie, meet Molly Hooper.” He introduced the two women quickly.

“Nice to meet you.” Molly smiled, “What are you having?”

“I don’t eat when I’m working. Digesting slows me down.” He replied.

“So you’re  _ both  _ working here tonight?” She looked between the two of them.

“Need to examine some bodies.”

“Some?”

“Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis.” At his request, Molly looked down to her clipboard.

“They’re on my list.” 

“Could you wheel them out again for me?”

“Well… their paperwork’s already gone through.” She looked apologetically up at him. He paused, stammering slightly.

“You changed your hair.” 

“What?”

“The style. It’s usually parted in the middle.” The second-hand embarrassment forced Queenie to avert her eyes.

“Yes, well…”

“It’s good. It…” He nodded, “Suits you better this way.” Molly beamed and looked away. Sherlock’s body language instantly changed the moment he was no longer being watched.

* * *

The mortuary was cold and smelt of disinfectant and death. Queenie sat on a stool as Molly wheeled the bodies out. Sherlock had left to collect Dimmock.

“So how did you meet Sherlock?” Molly asked, pointedly, moving a bagged body onto a table.

“Oh.” She shrugged, “Well, through work, I guess?” Molly still didn’t seem happy, “I’m staying with him for a bit, just until I get my own place.”

“Where are you looking?” There seemed to be civility in Molly’s voice.

“I have no idea, I can either find one myself or my job provides one so hopefully I don’t have to do much work.” She watched as Molly got the second body out and onto the table, “How did you end up doing this?” Molly stopped, shocked.

“What?”

“Like how did you end up working with dead bodies? It’s a pretty male-dominated industry.”

“I’ve always wanted to.” She smiled, still seemingly shocked at the question, “I did my degree in BioMed and then went on to a training course after I graduated. Just worked my way up from there.”

“That’s so cool!”

“Thank you.” She smiled and seemed to blush, “What do you do?”

“I’m just a civil servant.” She shrugged. Before Molly could reply, Sherlock walked in and Molly began unzipping the body bag. Dimmock awkwardly followed.

“We’re just interested in the feet,” Sherlock said. Queenie strode over to Lukis’ body that Molly stood near.

“The feet?”

“Yes. Do you mind if we have a look at them?” He walked to the bottom of the table and smiled. She unzipped the bottom of the bag, revealing the feet. Sure enough, the Black Lotus tattoo was there, “Now, Van Coon.” Van Coon was the same. The Black Lotus inked delicately onto the bottom of his foot, “Oh!” Sherlock said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“So…” Dimmock refused to make eye contact with Sherlock.

“So either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlour or I’m telling the truth.”

“What do you want?”

“I want every book from Lukis’ apartment and Van Coon’s.”

“Their books?” He looked incredulously at Sherlock. ”Not just a criminal organisation.” Back at 221B, Sherlock took his coat and scarf off, “It’s a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders.” John sat heavily in his chair and Queenie sat on the sofa and a wave of exhaustion hit her.

“Soo Lin said the name.” He said.

“Yes, ‘Shan.’ General Shan.”

“We’re still no closer to finding him.”

“Wrong! We’ve got almost all we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces. Why did he need to visit his sister? Why did he need her expertise?”

“She worked at the museum.”

“Exactly.”

“An expert in antiquities.” He groaned, “Mm, I see.”

“Valuable antiquities, John. Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China’s home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao’s revolution.”

“The Black Lotus is selling them.” Realisation struck Sherlock’s face. Queenie heard the conversation between two and the rustling, the sound of the laptop, but was hardly aware of it. She curled up on the sofa, crossed, legs to her chest and drifted to sleep.

* * *

It took him a few minutes of listening to the soft sounds for John to notice it was Queenie. On the couch, he hadn’t noticed her fall asleep, he and Sherlock had been so wrapped in their discovery, between cross-checking dates and prices, Her heavy breathing and mutters had gone unnoticed. John moved from Sherlock’s shoulder and knelt by her and touched her shoulder briefly, it was drenched in sweat.

“I think she’s having a night terror.” He told Sherlock, he received no reply, Sherlock being deep in his study of the antiquities.

She looked confused as she roused slightly, tears instantly blurring her vision. Completely blinded with fear, she only saw her brother’s concerned face. Like a child, she threw her arms around him, her face pushed against his chest. He wobbled and balanced himself and then returned the hug, one arm round her back, the other petting her hair gently.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.” He told her. She felt so small in his arms, Queenie usually held herself so powerfully that it was almost a shock as her petite frame easily fit into his arms.

It was when her hands gripped at the collar of his jumper that the memory flooded back to him.

_ The clock hard just struck midnight when she appeared in his bedroom doorway. A sixteen year old John sat at his desk, studying for his O-levels by his desk light, looking up to see his younger sister in the dark hallway. She was six, still sleeping with a night light, and she looked pale and miserable. _

_ “Why are you up?” He asked, voice croaky. _

_ “I had a bad dream.” She whimpered. John turned in his chair and opened his arms. She flew forward into his arms. He lifted her into his lap and rocked her, her tiny body so warm. She had fallen asleep like that, her head on his shoulder. _

Her sobs slowed and pushed herself off of John, her eyes distance.

“You okay?” He asked, instinctively checking her. She looked confused, “I think you’ve had a night terror.” She touched her chest, feeling her racing heart and nodded.

“I’m okay to sleep again.” She told him, already lying herself down fully. He wasn’t sure if she had ever truly woken up. He picked a blanket up and threw it over her.

“She’s my sister, isn’t she?” He asked Sherlock. The question seemed to grab Sherlock’s attention. He said nothing, and John nodded. Perhaps they’d just leave it a silently acknowledged fact.

The sound of movement and things being put down woke Queenie.

* * *

“What-?” She looked at John who was perched on the edge of the sofa.

“It’s all the books Sherlock wanted.” He explained, “How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” She rubbed the sleep from eyes and sat up. She had fallen asleep sitting, she was sure, “Did I wake up?”

“Kind of. You had a night terror.” John seemed slightly softer to her. She looked at him, ignoring police men moving around with boxes of books. He looked sad.

“Makes sense.” She whispered, she looked down at her hands. They shook slightly, “Can’t run away from it forever.” She took her jacket off, realising she was still wearing it as she got up to make more space for the officers.

The officers returned with the last books, putting the box marked “Lukis” on a plastic crate.

“So the numbers are references.” Sherlock explained to John. 

“To books.”

“To specific pages and specific words on those pages.” He continued, John nodded in understanding. Queenie began to open the last Lukis box. She cursed the lack of organisation.

“Right. So… 15 and 1, that means?”

“Page 15. First word.” Queenie supplied.

“Okay, so what’s the message?”

“Depends on the book. That’s the cunning of the book code. It has to be one that they both own.”

“And there’s no organisation to these boxes, Lukis has everything from Don Quixote to Twilight in here.” She held the books up as she spoke.

“Okay, fine.” John looked at the room filled with boxes, “Well, this shouldn't take too long, should it?” He sighed. He and Sherlock followed Queenie in taking the books out, checking their spines as they went.

Dimmock walked in, an evidence packet in his hand, “We found these at the museum. Is this your writing?” He asked before he could be greeted. John looked.

“Er, we hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us.” He explained with a slight nod.

“Ah.” Dimmock replied with a small nod, “Anything else I can do? To assist you I mean.” He added, looking at Sherlock.

“Some silence right now would be marvelous.” Sherlock didn’t pause his flurry of activity as he spoke. Dimmock looked at John who gave a half shrug.

“Thanks.” Queenie muttered to him as he left, still engrossed in her box of books.

They worked diligently through the rest of the night. They’d only speak when they had found two copies of the same book and found the 15th page.

When John’s alarm went off, the floor was scattered with books and Queenie’s eyes itched. John sighed in frustration.

“I’ve got that bloody locum work.”

“Go get ready, we’ll keep going.” Queenie waved at him. Rubbing her eyes as she checked a copy of Pride and Prejudice, “ _ Chapter _ ?” She sighed and closed the book.  Hours passed by, Sherlock hardly paused. Queenie managed to find a packet of fruit shortcakes and ate them as she worked. 

“It’ll be something that makes sense. Accessible. Common.” She said as she stared at the room, books on every surface.

“A book that everybody would own.” He looked at his own bookshelf. She looked at it and sighed.

“Dictionaries are common ones. Bibles too.”

“And encyclopedias.” Sherlock added, taking all three books off the shelf. 

_ Add. Nostrils. I.  _

Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration. John appeared in the kitchen, when she saw John, she got whiplash. She checked her watch and looked back at him.

“I need to get some air. We’re going out tonight.” Sherlock told the two.

“Actually, I’ve got a date.” John grinned, his cheeks slightly pink.

“What?” Sherlock squinted at John.

“With who?” Queenie added.

“Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?” John ignored Queenie’s question.

“That’s what I was suggesting.” He shrugged.

“With who, John?” She repeated.

“No, it wasn’t. At least I hope not.”

“Where are you taking her?”

“Er, cinema.” He looked at the books as he spoke.

“Dull, boring, predictable.” Sherlock walked through the maze of books to where John stood and passed him a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, “Why don’t you try this? In London for one night only.” John chuckled nervously.

“Thanks, but I don’t come to you for dating advice.” He said.

“What is it?” She took the corner of paper from his hands.

“A circus.” Sherlock nodded as she raised her eyebrows, impressed, “I already bought two tickets, you could have them John, they’re under my name but it’s not a problem.”

“Oh, John, c’mon. That would be cool.” She paused, “Is this with the lady who interviewed you for the locum work?”

“It is, yeah.” He nodded to Queenie, “Do you actually think it’s a good idea?” She nodded in reply, Sherlock grinned, “Alright then. Okay. Thanks.” He walked away towards his room, still seemingly shocked at the verdict. Queenie listened until his bedroom door shut and looked at Sherlock.

“Call back,” She said in a whisper, “Get two more tickets.” They both did a single nod to each other, “I’ll go get ready.”

* * *

Queenie had gotten ready in a rush, she was just putting her jumpsuit on when she heard John shout his goodbyes. 

“Sherlock, can you zip me up?” She asked, walking into the living room where he stood, struggling with the last few inches.

“Of course.” She felt him neatly place his hand on her right shoulder blade and tug the zip up.

“Thanks.” She smiled, “I’ll get shoes on and we can go.” 

She watched him grab his coat as she laced her boots up. They were cherry red Doc Martens, the kind she would’ve killed for as a teenager, the ones with the platforms. It felt like such a stupid thing to still want, she had venetian leather and a designer wardrobe but she still wanted the same boots.

“Stop thinking. We have to go.” Sherlock’s crisp voice broke through her thoughts as she did the last knot and let the cuffs of her jumpsuit fall over the ankle, “Very-” He stammered slightly, “-coordinated. Nice.” He added. With a roll of her eyes, she stood and headed out the door with him. It was such a Sherlock thing to say. Factual - a red top under the black jumpsuit, matched to lipstick and shoes.

* * *

John was standing at the box office when Sherlock and Queenie approached.

“Actually, I have four in that name.” They heard the attendee say.

“No, I don’t think so, we only booked two.”

“Then I phoned back and got one for myself and Queenie as well.” Sherlock interjected. John’s annoyance clear in his stature, “I’m Sherlock.” He stuck his hand out to John’s date.

“Queenie.” She added with a small wave as she laughed awkwardly and shook Sherlock’s hand.

“Hi.” She smiled.

“Hello.” He gave Queenie a look and she followed him up into the theatre. They only reached the stairs when John caught up with them.

“Oi!” John hissed, they both turned, “You couldn’t let me have just one night off.” He fumed.

“Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England…”

“Dressed as a tightrope walker? Come on, Sherlock, behave!”

“John, the killer can climb and shim up a rope. Trust me, that dexterity takes a lot of training. Where else are you going to find that?” Queenie butted in. She was on the step above Sherlock.

“Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look around the place.” He finished explaining.

“Fine. You do that. I’m gonna take Sarah for a pint.”John took a step down, his intentions clear.

“I need your help.” Sherlock’s voice was imperative.

“I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening.” 

“Like what?” He snapped back. She cringed.

“You are kidding?”

“What’s so important?”

“Sherlock, I’m right in the middle of a date.” He looked round to see where Sarah was, “You’re going to chase some killer while I’m trying to…” 

“What?” Sherlock’s fixation on the case made his innocence all the more prominent. He didn’t have room in his head for thinking about romance.

“While I’m trying to get off Sarah.” John’s voice was louder than he intended. Queenie watched Sarah turn the corner as he spoke, the second hand embarrassment almost painful, “Hey…” He said to her. Queenie tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve and began walking up the stairs, “Ready?” She heard him say. Sarah gave him a resounding confirmation.

The theatre only had standing space. People milled round a circle of lit candles in the middle of the seating area. Queenie observed the small number of people as she stood slightly behind Sarah.

“You said circus. This is not a circus.” He said softly to Sherlock, “Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is…” He paused, trying to find the right word, “...art.”

“This is not their day job.”

“No, I’m sorry, I forgot. They’re not a circus, they’re a gang of international smugglers.” John failed to notice Sarah listening in keenly to the conversation. She gave Queenie a confused look who returned it with a furrow brow and mouthed a ‘ _ what? _ ’ That earnt her a smile from Sarah.

Thankfully, a soft percussive beat started before Sherlock and John could continue to argue. A woman in a Zhou dynasty style wedding dress walked to the centre of the circle of candles. She raised her hand and the small drum sped and then stopped. Larger, deeper drums began to beat. She took a sheet over a crossbow, picked a bolt and showed it to the crowd before loading it into the weapon.

“Those things are deadly.” Queenie told Sherlock, “The recoil alone.” John looked round, confused at both her comment and the show.

The woman took a feather from her headdress and it into a bowl that was connected to the crossbow. The bolt whooshed and hit a wooden panel with a thud. The audience gasped and laughed at their own fright.

A second character entered the centre of the circle, in armour and a mask. He held his arms up and was tied in chains by stagehands, led back to the board the bolt had struck and tied to it.

“Classic Chinese escapology act.” John and Sarah turned to Sherlock when he spoke, “The crossbow’s on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires.” The woman reloaded the crossbow. The finished tying the warrior to the board and he let out a few shouts of discomfort for good measure. A cymbal crashed, Sarah jumped. giggled and ended up holding on to John’s arm.

The woman in the centre of the circle held a knife, showing the crowd.

“She splits the sandbag, the sand pours out. Gradually, the weight lowers into the bowl.” It was just as Sherlock. The woman reached up with the knife and stabbed at the sandbag, sand immediately started trickling out. The escapologist began shouting and grunting as he began his escape. Queenie felt a tap on her shoulder and Sherlock motioned to her with a flick of his eyes. She followed his lead, letting the act distract Sarah and John. 

By the time they reached backstage, they heard applause. Queenie split from Sherlock, walking around the edge of the costumes. When the woman stormed into the backstage, she had an easier time than Sherlock who hid himself behind a rail of costumes. Queenie simply ducked under a large trunk, holding her breath until she heard the woman leave.

“Found you.” She heard Sherlock say, peaking above the trunk she hid behind, she watched him stand and part the clothes on the rail. He painted a yellow line on the mirror and beamed. Then he noticed it. The warrior was behind him, watching him, standing still as a statue. Until Sherlock met his eyes.

He swung his sword viciously that Sherlock seemed to dodge without issue. Sherlock was kicked and choked, retaliating by spraying the warrior’s eyes with the paint. Queenie leapt up, climbing over furniture and pushing clothing racks away from her, as she reached the warrior, he gave Sherlock an almighty kick, pushing him through curtains, off the stage and into the standing area. The warrior jumped after him, Queenie on his tail. She jumped down and ran towards the cross box, grabbing a bolt. To her surprise, Sarah was doing the same thing as John was being winded. They ran together and Sarah smacked him down with the bolt. He stopped and Queenie took her opportunity to pull him down by the neck, using the bolt to make contact with his throat, he hit the ground with a deadweight. Knocked completely out. For good measure, Sarah gave him another bash with her weapon. Sherlock slowly got up, all of them breathing deeply. He pulled the shoe off of the warrior. It didn’t come as a surprise to see the Black Lotus tattooed there.

“Come on.” John held Sarah’s hand as they began to run.

“Come on. Let’s go!” Sherlock sped them towards the door, ignoring his soreness.

* * *

They followed Dimmock, who threw doors open carelessly, “I sent a couple of cars. The hold hall is totally deserted.” He said. Sherlock, Queenie, John and Sarah followed after him.

“Look, I saw the mark at the circus.” Sherlock told him, “The tattoo that we saw on the two bodies, the mark of the Tong.”

“Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation.” John added, “Now, one of them stole something when they were in China. Something valuable.”

“The circus, the performers, it’s all a front to get gang members here, so that they can get it back.” Queenie explained.

“Get what back?” Dimmock squinted at them.

“We don’t know.” She admitted.

“You don’t know?” He sighed, “Mr Homes, Special Agent Hyland, I’ve done everything you asked.” He sat heavily, “Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I’ll have something to show for it. Other than a massive bill for overtime.

* * *

221B was a welcome sight. Queenie threw herself into a chair at the kitchen table, moving chemistry equipment around so she could rest her elbows.

“They’ll be back in China by tomorrow.” John said.

“No.” She replied, “You don’t leave without finishing the job. They won’t leave without what they came for.”

“We need to find a hideout.” Sherlock flung his scarf down, “A rendezvous. Somewhere in this message it must tell us. ”

“Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it.” Sarah nodded, her mouth a thin straight line.

“No, you don’t have to go.”

“Yes, it’d be better if you left now.” John and Sherlock spoke at the same time.

“You can stay. He’s kidding. Please stay if you’d like.” She smiled at John’s words.

“Is it just me or is anyone else starving?” She asked.

“Oh, God.” Sherlock groaned.

John checked the fridge, there were a couple of beers and a human skull. Sarah, hands in her dress pocket, looked at the room, the piles of books, the printouts of photos and Queenie’s scribbled notes of alphabets.

“So this is what you do.” She mused, “You, John and Queenie, you solve puzzles for a living.”

“Consulting detective.” Sherlock corrected. 

“Oh.” She nodded.

John continued his search of the kitchen, hunting for something edible.

“I think I finished the last pack of biscuits off earlier.” Queenie told him when he held a pack of wotsits, “Also, I think you need to save Sarah from Sherlock.” She nodded to the living room. As John poured the wotsits into a bowl, there was a soft hoot at the kitchen door. An elderly lady entered holding a tray with a tea towel on.

“I’ve done punch and a bowl of nibbles.” She whispered to John, laying them next to where Queenie sat.

“Oh, sorry.” She moved to give the woman more space.

“Mrs Hudson, you are a saint.” After a moment he added, “This is Queenie. Sherlock’s friend.”

“Ah. Hello, dear.” She patted Queenie’s shoulder, not noticing her slight wince, “If it was Monday, I’d have been to the supermarket.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

Slowly, Queenie got to her feet with the intention of staring at more books. Instead, she found Sarah next to her.

“Feel like I’ll get a nicer answer from you.” She half-joked in a whisper. Queenie’s eyes flick to see she was holding the evidence bag Dimmock had brought, “So these numbers, it’s a cypher?”

“Yeah, an ancient Chinese number system.”

“He was saying, Suzhou?”

“Hangzhou.”

“And each pair of numbers is a word?”

“Mmhmm.” Queenie nodded. Then stopped, “How do you know that?”

“Well, two words have already been translated, here.” She passed the paper, pointing at where Soo Lin had begun to translate the cypher.

“Sherlock.” Excitement rushed through her body, the 12 - 1 was marked “ _ Nine _ ” and the 103 - 75 marked “ _ Mill _ ” She strode past Sarah to slam the paper on his desk.

“John. John, come look at this.” He took the paper out of the evidence packet, “Soo Lin at the museum, she started to translate the code for us.”

“We didn’t see her do it.” Queenie whispered, she turned and covered her eyes with hands and tried to picture the restoration room, the books on the table.

“Does that mean millions?” John asked.

“Nine million quid. For what?” Sherlock grabbed his coat, “We need to know the end of this sentence.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the museum, to the restoration room.” He groaned, “We must have been staring right at it.”

“At what?”

“The book, John. The book. The key to cracking the cypher. Soo Lin used it to do this. Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code.” He looked to Queenie, who nodded. 

“It’ll be on her desk.” She said, following him as he left.

* * *

John and Sarah were left looking perplexed.

“I’ve been wanting to ask, who exactly is Queenie?” Sarah broke the silence.

“She’s my little sister.” John admitted.

“Is she married? Special Agent Hyland, right? That’s what the detective said.”

“Honestly,” He sighed, “I have no idea.”

* * *

The moment Queenie and Sherlock left 221B, Sherlock shouting for a taxi, he knocked a book out of a pair of tourists' hands.

“ _ Hey, du! Siehst du nicht wo du hingehst? _ ” The tourist shouted.

“ _ Entschuldigen Sie, bitte _ .” Queenie apologised, picking the book up and passing it to him. She looked at the book briefly, as did Sherlock. It was a London A-Z.

“ _ Ja, danke! _ ” He sarcastically responded, “ _ Und dann sagen die, dass die Engländer höflich sind _ !”

Sherlock raised his arm, trying to hail a taxi that was already driving past. Queenie looked down the street, a man and his daughter consulted a London A-Z on the corner. She remembered seeing one on Sherlock’s bookshelf. And one in Lukis’ flat. The corner of one stuck out from under a pile of papers in the restoration room. Her own echo flashed through her mind, “ _ It’ll be something that makes sense. Accessible. Common. _ ”

“A book that everybody would own.” She whispered out loud. Sherlock had been looking at the tourist, his eyes widened. Queenie turned back to the German tourists, already running down the street to them, Sherlock on her heels.

Please, wait!  _ Bitte _ !” He yelled.

“ _ Warten _ !” She shouted. They looked back, confused, “ _ Dein Buch! _ ”

“ _ Was wollt er? Was will er? _ ” The man asked his companion. Sherlock snatched the book out of his hand, “ _ Hey, du! Was machst du _ ?” Sherlock turned to the fifteenth page.

“ _ Minute _ !” He snapped.

“ _ Gib mir doch mein Buch zurück _ !” He shouted. Then seemed to give up on it, Sherlock and Queenie engrossed in the book.

“Page 15, entry one. Page 15, entry one.” He repeated, to himself.

“There.” Queenie pointed to “ _ Deadmans Lane _ ,” “Deadman. It  _ was  _ a threat to kill them.”

“That’s the first cypher.” He passed the book to Queenie and took the paper out of his inner pocket. She looked at it and flicked to the correct page.

“Fore.” She told him, he scribbled it in, “70, 35.” She whispered she pulled the sheet towards her, working quickly, “Jade. Pin. Dragon. Den. Black. Tramway.”

“Nine mill for Jade pin, dragon den, black… tramway.” He looked at Queenie, he grabbed Queenie’s hand and pulled her towards.

“John!” He shouted the moment he opened the door, still running, “John, I’ve got it.” They entered through the kitchen, “The cypher, the book.” Queenie had noticed the emptiness in the flat, “It’s the London A-Z that they’re use…”

“Shit.” She cursed, seeing the 15 - 1 cypher on the window. 

_ Deadman. _

John came to i

* * *

n a fire lit tunnel, cold and tied to a chair. His head throbbed as he tried to understand what had happened. He remembered telling Sarah about Queenie, discussing the night and ordering a takeaway and then he was here.

“A book is like a magic garden, carried in your pocket.” A woman spoke as he came to. He looked to his side and saw Sarah next to him, gagged and panic clear in her eyes as her lip quivered. The woman who had spoken walked closer. She wore her hair in a bob and hid her face with wrap-around sunglasses. An inch separated her and John. She pulled her glasses up, “Chinese proverb, Mr Holmes.” He looked confused at her words.

“I’m… I’m not Sherlock Holmes.” He told her. The woman smiled.

“Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.” He groaned in pain as she reached into his pocket, his ribs were painful. She took out his wallet and flicked it open, “Debit Card, name of S Holmes.” She read. 

“Yes, that’s not actually mine.” He remembered Sherlock telling him to take his card, “He leant that to me.”

“And a cheque for £5000 made out in the name of Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah, he gave me that to look after.” He groaned.

“Tickets from the theatre collected by you, name of Holmes.”

“Yes, okay.” He nodded, “I realise what this looks like. But I’m not him.”

“We heard it from your own mouth.” She seemed to think she had a checkmate on him.

“What?” He was genuinely confused.

“ _ I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone. _ ” She quoted. The image of himself pacing back and forth Soo Lin’s front door shouting sprang to his mind, “ _ Because no one can compete with my massive intellect. _ ”

“Did I really say that?” His smile fell quickly. Regret and frustration filling him, “I suppose there’s no use me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression.” He looked up to see a gun in his face. He exhaled heavily.

“I am Shan.” She finally introduced herself, smiling.

“You’re… You’re Shan?”

“Three times we tried to kill you and your companion, Mr Holmes. The woman, many more times.” She explained, “What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?” She cocked the gun. And he began to stammer and shake. Her finger got closer and closer to pulling the trigger. She pulled it and it clicked, the barrel empty, “It tells you that they’re not really trying.” He sighed in momentary relief, ruined by her reloading and cocking the gun, “Not blank bullets now.”

“Okay.” John breathed heavily.

“If we wanted to kill you, Mr Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive.” She paused, “Do you have it?”

“Do I have what?” He asked.

“The treasure.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He couldn’t quite catch his breath, his fight or flight response made him shake.

“I would prefer to make certain.” She said and whipped a sheet he hadn’t noticed away, revealing the crossbow from the circus, “Everything in the West has its price. And the price for her life, information.” Sarah’s face was tear-stained, fresh tears adding to it as she was lifted, still in her chair. She sobbed and tried to free herself.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He whispered, knowing it was helpless. She was left in front of the weapon, staring at the bolt.

“Where’s the hairpin?” Shan asked John.

“What?” He was desperate.

“The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling?” She spat, “We already had a buyer in the West and then one of our people was greedy, he took it, brought it back to London, and you, Mr Holmes, have been searching.”

“Please, please.” He begged, “Listen to me. I’m not… I’m not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven’t found whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“I need a volunteer from the audience.” She called out.

“No, please, please!”

“Ah, thank you, lady.” She turned her attention to Sarah, “Yes, you’ll do very nicely.” Her sobs and screams came out as groans into her gag. Shan plunged her knife into the sandbag. “Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant, moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure, Sherlock Holmes’ pretty companion in a death-defying act.

“Please!” John strained, seeing Sarah’s panicked face, raw fear in her eyes. Shan placed a black paper lotus on her lap.

“You’ve seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how it ends.”

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” He bellowed.

“I don’t believe you.”

* * *

“Does John still have a gun?” Queenie asked Sherlock, he nodded.

“Box under his bed.” He told her, she ran up the stairs into her brother’s room. It was clean, everything folded and in place. On her stomach, she found the gun easily and loaded it, taking an extra few rounds in her jumpsuit pocket. She ran back down the stairs to Sherlock ready to leave, she didn’t stop moving, her feet hardly touching the stairs.

“Taxi!” She shouted, seeing one pass, it stopped. She opened the door for Sherlock, climbing in after him.

“Kingsway. Quickly.” He asked the driver. He nodded and drove. 

The taxi was fast, but London traffic slowed things down painfully, each second felt long. And yet Queenie was eager, the cold heaviness of the gun slipped into her pocket and the bullets hidden in her bra made her feel electric and unstoppable.

They reached the street and paid, Queenie led Sherlock to the service entrance, hidden away. She pushed the heavy door and it swung open. A man stood guarded a staircase a few feet away, clearly not paying attention. She bounded forward, both hands held together to hit his head, he went down quickly.

“Wonderful.” Sherlock nodded.

“Didn’t think you’d want to get your hands dirty just yet.” She sniped, starting down the stairs.

“How do we know it’s this way?”

“Good place for a joint.” She replied. The place was darker than she remembered, or maybe it was the smokescreen of memories lying to her. She and Sherlock were silent as they entered the tunnel, there were few guards in the entryway, though Queenie could make out flickering silhouettes of more people at the end of the tunnel. She crouched low. The tunnel made it dangerous to use a gun.

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” John’s voice echoed through the tunnel.

“I don’t believe you.” A woman hissed back, John’s panic juxtaposed by her calmness.

“You should, you know.” Sherlock’s voice carried. He stood out in the open, Queenie hidden away, then scampered to where she was. She had found old piping, she armed herself and passed one to him as he went behind her, “Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him.” Someone moved closer and Queenie readied herself, “How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Late?” She vaguely heard John say.

“That’s a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second.”

“Well?” The woman asked as the guard came into Queenie’s view, she swung at him with the metal pipe. There was a satisfying clunk as it came into contact with his skull. Sherlock was close behind her.

“Well… the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres.” They both moved back into hiding, “If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you.” Sherlock went running and kicked one of the bin fires over, the woman jumped at the movement and sound. They were plunged into darkness, making it easy to hide. Queenie went ahead, beginning to untie Sarah from her chair.

“It’s me, it’s John’s sister, you’re okay.” She whispered to her. She was tugged by a curtain thrown around her neck. She struggled with him, Sherlock helping her fight. He was powerful, she had already learnt that, but with the curtain around her neck, she couldn’t think. She felt the gun in her pocket but couldn’t take the risk.

Sarah’s panicked breaths caught her attention. As the weight was about to touch the bowl, the entire crossbow shifted, it dodged Sarah and Queenie ducked as much as she could, pulling Sherlock with. The bolt struck the Zhi Zhu. He keeled over, his last breath rattling. Shan’s footsteps receded as she ran away.

Queenie threw the curtain off of her and stood in front of Sarah, leaning over her.

“Sherlock, can you-?” She choked out, coughing slightly from the choking, he nodded and began untying the bonds, this time, without problems. Sarah fell into Queenie, sobbing unrestrainedly, “It’s okay, I’ve got you. It’s over now. It’s all over.” She shushed her gently. John groaned on the floor and Sherlock went to see to him, “Can you stand?” Sarah nodded. Tried to stand and then shook her head, “That’s okay.”

“Don’t worry.” John said, Queenie flicked her head around and was surprised to see him lying on the floor, “Next date won’t be like this.” To her own surprise, she laughed. As did Sarah.

“Queenie, go on ahead, call for Scotland Yard.” Sherlock said, “I’ll get these two out safe.” For the first, Dimmock’s arrival was a pleasant thing. He shook her hand.

“We didn’t get the leader, but Lukis, Van Coon and Yao’s murderer is dead.” She told him. As she did, Sherlock appeared, flagged by John, who had his arms around Sarah.

“We’ll just slip off. No need to mention us in your report.” Sherlock told Dimmock.

“Mr Holmes…” He began but was interrupted.

“I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career.” 

“I go where you point me.” Sherlock looked at the Inspector and Queenie, he stuck his elbow out and Queenie latched her arm around his. Together, they began to walk.

“Exactly.” Sherlock snipped, whisking himself away into the darkness.


	6. Chapter 5

Despite sharing a bed with Sherlock, Queenie felt she had never had a deeper sleep. She woke in the same position she had fallen asleep in, her skin wearing the impressions of the bedsheets she had curled upon. Sherlock slept on when she got up. She was still in her clothes from the day prior. Creased, and slightly bloody.

“Morning.” John’s voice made her jump, he sat at the kitchen table looking rested.

“Hi.” She smiled at him, entered the kitchen and sat with him.

There were a few minutes of awkward silence, neither making eye contact with each other.

“You and Sherlock-?” He asked.

“Still not a thing.” She laughed.

“Look, Queenie. Regina.” He sighed, “Are we going to talk about it? It’s been years of nothing and then you’re here?” She smiled at him.

“It wasn’t meant to happen.” She told him, “I should’ve never been in contact with you again.” Her mouth became a line as she held back tears, “And it’s my fault that I am.” She shook her head, “I can’t-”

“Hey.” He put a hand on her shoulder, “We have time. Right?” She nodded, “Then I’ll wait until you're ready.” Queenie looked over her shoulder, Sherlock stood in the doorway awkwardly.

“Tea?” He offered.

* * *

Sherlock poured the steeped pot of tea into each mug.

“Ta.” John thanked him, “So, nine million-”

“Million.”

“Yes. Nine million for Jade pin dragon den black tramway.” He repeated.

“It’s an instruction to all their London operatives.” Queenie pointed to the paper. She had changed whilst the tea was brewing.

“Mmm.”

“A message. What they were trying to reclaim.” She continued.

“What, a jade pin?” John looked at her in confusion

“Worth nine million pounds. Bring it to the Tramway, their London hideout.” She finished.

“Hang on. A hairpin worth nine million pounds?”

“Apparently.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Why so much?”

“Depends who owned it.” He explained, sipping his tea.

* * *

“Two operatives based in London.” Sherlock explained as the three walked up to Sebastian’s building, “They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps themself to something. A little hairpin.”

“Worth nine million pounds.” John added.

“Eddie Van Coon was the thief, he stole the treasure when he was in China.”

“How do you know it was Van Coon, not Lukis? Even the killer didn’t know that.”

“Because of the soap.”

“John and-” Sebastian failed to remember Queenie’s name when they entered his office.

“Queenie.” She supplied.

“Are you here about the break-in? Any updates?” He asked. John nodded, arms crossed and gestured to his sister.

“The graffiti was for Van Coon. It meant  _ Deadman. _ He was part of a Chinese smuggling operation. The person who broke in climbed up your walls, onto the balcony and in through the window.” She explained concisely.

“A smuggling operation-” He looked to John, “He really climbed up onto the balcony?” John nodded. He scribbled on a cheque and threw into an envelope.

“Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over.” He suggested. Sebastian held the envelope to him. John took the envelope with a word of thanks.

* * *

“Who Wants To Be A Million Hair?” was plastered onto a tabloid, days later. Queenie sat in her kitchen in her new flat, laughing gently to herself.

The place was filled with boxes of things, still taped up. Still too overwhelming to open.

And yet, she felt peaceful.

The calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so ends the blind banker! thanks for reading!


End file.
